


How Dean (On Multiple Occasions) Got Lost in England, and Cas (Infallibly) Provided Caffeine

by ahrent



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Human, Barista Castiel, Dean goes to England, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Mechanic Dean Winchester, and falls in love, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-01-27 15:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 49,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1716242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahrent/pseuds/ahrent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Dean is a mechanic and Cas is a war veteran; where there is an annoying amount of tea and an almost sufficient amount of caffeine; where Dean gets lost a lot but Cas is there to help him out; where there are insufferable butlers and even more insufferable brothers; where there's a broken Impala and a broken Dean. </p><p>And also a little bit of love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Are You Kidding Me?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [archerdork](https://archiveofourown.org/users/archerdork/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a thing. I hope you want to read the thing.
> 
> So initially this fanfic was a text message to archerdork saying "OMG I WANT TO READ A DESTIEL WHERE DEAN GOES TO LONDON OVER A SUMMER AND MEETS CAS IN A COFFEE SHOP AND FALLS IN LOVE IN A COFFEE SHOP AND THERE IS MANPAIN" and she was like "well write it, bitch." so I did.
> 
> Be warned: there is some swearing. But it's Dean. What were you expecting.

"You're _what_?" With the phone pressed tight between his ear and shoulder, the shout was uncomfortably loud. He jumped - slightly - and fumbled with his leather jacket.

"I'm at the airport, Sam. Remove your bangs from your ears and listen."

Sam's bitchy snort, the one he'd named #3, AKA "you're being a jerk for no reason again, Dean, and I'll let you go on with it this time but this time only", came slightly contorted from halfway to the floor.

"Fuck," Dean hissed, and dropped his carry-on, "Fucking worthless, slippery-" he picked up the phone in time to hear the end of Sam's sentence.

"-wondering where you think you're going in a plane, you know you hate-"

"I know I hate- there's no need to point it out." he growled, putting the phone back between his ear and shoulder and picking the bag up again, "But apparently you need a plane to cross the fucking Atlantic."

Sam spluttered some more. Dean kept hurrying.

"You're crossing the Atlantic and you didn't think that was worth telling me before you were _at the airport waiting for your flight_?"

"I'm going to England not the end of the world. God, Sammy, you're such a girl."

"England?!" Sam screeched. Dean thought he could hear Jess' worried voice underneath Sam demanding to know what business he could possibly have in England. To be honest he was kind of wondering about that himself, but he was a bit busy looking for a gate that apparently didn't fucking exist.

"Look dude, I'm running late and I can't find my terminal and no one around here seems keen on doing their job" he glared around the mostly empty airport. No one glared back. A janitor started whistling. "I'll call you in two hours from Toronto and you can screech all you want. See you later, Sasquatch."

"You are such a jerk, Dean, but remember, there's no need to be sca-"

He hung up. 

 

* * *

 

"Sir, I'm going to have to look through your bag." The security worker spoke nasally. 

She was at least 50 years old and had the kind of aesthetically displeasing features that told the world quite clearly that this lady had never been pretty and wasn't improving. She unzipped his duffel and picked up the ornate flask he'd carefully wound with a t-shirt.

"Sir, you cannot bring this aboard the aircraft with you" The woman drawled.

"Well, Ms… Blake is it? Ms. Blake, you see, silly ol' me is a bit of a nervous flyer-"

"Sir, you cannot take this with you aboard the aircraft." 

"Oh, you don't think you can make just one exception? It would really be a comfort, you see…"

She looked blankly at him. "Sir, it clearly states on our website and on several signs in sir's close vicinity that any and all beverages are prohibited from entering the aircraft and upon attempting to bring beverages aboard the aircraft sir is enabling us to remove said beverage from sir's possession to safely-" 

"Are you kidding me?" he protested. 

"Sir, any and all beverages are prohibited from entering the aircraft."

"Well, then, what am I supposed to do with it?"

"Sir, any and all beverages-"

He lost fifteen minutes convincing the security team to send the flask to Sam in California instead of throwing it away, and ended up having to run even faster to his flight than he would have already had to run. It did not improve his mood that he was last on and had to use excessive force to get his duffel to fit in the overhead compartment, only to find that his seat was next to an overweight man in a hawaiian t-shit who was asleep - and snoring - before the plane got as far as the runway. Dean briefly wondered when his life had become a clichéd, cruel comedy and how he could make it stop.

 

* * *

 

 

He called Sam from a pay phone at the Toronto airport.

"Dean," Sam, who had mastered the art of sounding both relieved and admonishing at the age of six, whined at him. "Now will you tell me why the hell you're going to England all of a sudden?"

"Sammy!" Dean grinned, "This is costing you so much money!"

"Are you drunk?" he sounded scandalized. 

"Planes go really, really high up, Sammy, but the whiskey goes down, down, down." He was feeling pleasantly warm and relaxed, and leaning a little more heavily on the wall than he would have if he'd been sober, well, then that was no one's business but his.

"Dean," Sam sighed, "will you focus? Why are you going to England?"

"Oh, well, dad asked me to go to London for a client, since he's so busy with the shop-"

Sam scoffed, "Busy with the shop? Yeah right, he hasn't done any real work with 'the shop' in years. The only reason he's still in business is because you work your fingers raw on the cars and cover his ass with the financials-"

"Sam, for fuck's sake-" He put his forehead against the cool tiles of the wall. Nothing like Sammy Winchester to ruin a perfectly good buzz.

"No, Dean, where does he get off sending you halfway across the world like he owns you? And since when does 'Winchester and Son' run internationally anyway?"

"We don't."

"Then why-"

"It's the Impala."

There was silence on the line. Behind Dean people rushed here and there, hugging hello and goodbye.

"As in the-"

"Yeah."

Some more silence.

"But how-?"

Dean took a deep breath. "Remember James Talbot? Who dad… sold her to? Well, apparently he got filthy rich on horses or something and moved to London to start an antique car collection. He called dad up a couple of days ago and asked if dad remembered that '67 Chevy-"

"Did he?"

"Did he what?"

"Remember?"

Dean gritted his teeth. "He needed some reminding."

"Shit."

"Yeah. Anyway. He crashed her, the fucking idiot, and now he needs help fixing her up since Londoners suck at American classics. Shocker. Said he'd send us one of his Mustangs out of the deal."

"Dean, you loved that car."

"Yeah, that's kind of why I'm doing it." He grumbled, scratching at a sticker on the side of the receiver.

"No, you're doing it because dad asked you." His next words were infuriatingly gentle, "It's been nine years and you still love that car. Do you really think you can go to London, fix the Impala, and leave again?"

"It's a car, Sam, I'm not a girl." 

Sam sighed but, thankfully, dropped it. Then came the calculating 'ooh-I'm-a-lawyer-I-have-power-in-a-court-of-law'-voice that Dean was sure he would never get used to. "How long is this going to take?"

Dean was immediately suspicious, "At least two months, why?"

"Then I say go for it."

"Dude, I'm in Canada, how is this not going for it?"

"No, I mean, seriously, go for it. This is your chance, to get away from dad."

"What the hell are you talking about-"

"Dean, you've spent your entire life in that shop, working for nothing, and I've been telling you for years that you have to get out from under that man. He's choking you, Dean, you're better than him, by a long shot, and you know it."

"I swear to god, Sammy, I am not having this discussion-"

"You're not happy, Dean! It's obvious and it's killing me. Please, just- take this time in London to be on your own. Every second you're in the man's presence you shrink about a foot and I barely recognize you anymore. Just… I don't know, sit in a goddamned park or a coffee shop for a fucking minute and learn to think about yourself!

Dean rolled his eyes, "Sam you're being ridiculous-"

Sam was angry now. Or at least as angry as he could get, which was really more whiny and hurt than anything else. "You've always had dreams, and don't tell me you haven't 'cause I'm the one you whispered them to when you couldn't sleep at night. For once I wish you'd follow one of them. Or find a new one. How 'bout it; London: the city of dreams!"

"I think that's a casino in Vegas."

"No, it's in Canada actually, it felt appropriate, but now it's London, so suck it up." He sounded annoyingly pleased with himself.

"You're such a little bitch."

"And you're a jerk. 'Least you could do is be a happy jerk."

 

* * *

 

Dean stumbled off the plane at Heathrow airport bright and early on the morning of the fifth of June, feeling like he'd rather be just about anywhere else and also a little like he needed a drink. He took a breather against the first wall he could find, a grey speckled but gloriously stable one next an ad about taxi-services, and decided that the reason his legs were shaking was that he'd been sitting down for six hours and that they would very soon stop. In the end he was last to exit through security, which meant that despite the leftover groups of people hugging and kissing and laughing, the sign reading "Winchester" was clear from across the room. Dean looked at the man holding it. He looked down at himself. He looked back at the man. He scratched his unshaven chin. He walked up to the man.

"Are you kidding me?"

"Doubtful, sir." Drawled the butler, looking like he'd been pulled straight out of a movie from the 19th century and was not amused. Not one bit.

"I mean, I knew Talbot was loaded but seriously?" The butler managed to look down his nose at Dean. This was an achievement as he was at least two inches shorter. He was long faced and pompous looking, in his mid-fifties at the latest but with more wrinkles than seemed appropriate. He wore white gloves. _White gloves_. "I'm going to get oil on the limo, aren't I?" asked Dean.

"Probable, sir." 

"Is there whiskey in the limo?"

The butler raised a condescending eyebrow but didn't bother answering. Too bad, since Dean was completely serious. 

"Does sir have all sir's luggage?"

With this and the snotty security worker in Kansas, Dean was sure he had never been called sir so many times in a day before. It was unsettling him. "Uh, yeah, yeah this is all I have." He weakly raised the arms holding the duffel and the coat. The butler made a sound Dean could only describe as a way of saying 'you would have only that, you greasy mongrel' except in a posh, British sort of way.

"If you'll follow me, sir." He made an attempt to turn around and walk away, but stopped when Dean did not follow him. Dean shifted his way from foot to foot. 

"Don't you need to, I don't know, see my license or something?"

"Why would I need to do that, sir?" Dean felt like writing 'condescending' in capital letters across the dude's forehead, or on his bow tie.

"So you know I'm the right guy, I'd have guessed _Mr. Talbot_ would want to be sure you're not picking some random guy up at the airport."

The butler gave a sigh, like Dean was in fact the most terrible nuisance he'd had the misfortune of having to deal with in at least a year or two.

"Not to worry, sir. Mr. Talbot's description of sir was quite sufficient." 

Now Dean was sure that had been an insult, he just wasn't sure exactly how. He followed the butler this time.

"Could you stop calling me 'sir'?"

"Indeed I could. Sir."

"Figures." Dean muttered and hoisted his duffel up on one shoulder.

 

* * *

 

"Are you kidding me?" Dean demanded, standing in the rush and chatter of the drop-off zone of Heathrow fucking airport. It wasn't raining but it wasn't not raining either. It was a little like the sky had decided to rain but then become so distracted by the sight of an oil-stained, jeans-wearing American standing next to an extremely well dressed posh British butler that it hadn't quite managed to follow through on the action. "I was joking when I said I'd get oil on the limo" He continued, "Are you telling me there's actually a limo?" There was actually a limo. Dean was looking at it. That didn't mean he was buying it. The butler sighed. Dean was sensing a pattern. 

"As sir can see, there is in fact a limousine. Now if sir is so inclined, he may enter said limousine." The butler closed the trunk on Dean's duffel and held one of the doors open with an air of strained patience. And condescension. Dean stared at the smooth black paint of the limo instead. 

"But this is a… this is a Mercedes-Benz 600. Did you know that? This is the Pullman. _Elvis_ had one of these!" He was pointing at it as if this would make the butler suddenly realise that they did indeed have the wrong car and should immediately go in search of something less stress-inducing. He was not in luck. What the butler in fact did do was raise his eyebrow. 

"Did he now?" he gestured for Dean to enter the car with an elegant, white gloved, hand. 

Dean tried to step in like he belonged there but was uncomfortably aware of the fact that he really _really_ wasn't. Sitting down without your jeans actually touching your seat is a difficult task, he was quickly learning. He was also very aware of the fact that people around him in the drop off zone were throwing him, the butler, and the very, very posh car incredulous looks. One man was actually raising a camera in his direction. Dean flipped him off and slumped into the leather seats. Then he straightened up and tried to touch as little of the interior as possible. Then he realised he looked silly and relaxed back. Then he realised he was touching the interior and sat up straight again. It wasn't exactly something that someone who actually belonged in a car like this would do. If only Sam could see him now. 

The butler stepped in from the other direction and sat, with perfect posture, opposite him. He leaned forward and opened a compartment to Dean's left. With a hum, bottles of soda, beer and what he suspected was tea, as well as snacks slid forwards slightly. 

"Okay, warming up to the limo." Dean stated, leaned back, and decided to stay there. He stuffed a handful of peanuts in his mouth. "So, what's your name?" it came out a little less like 'what's your name' and a little more like what a person with a mouth full of peanuts trying to say 'Switzerland' might sound like. The butler's mouth turned downwards. 

"Eames, sir." There was definite disgust in his voice. 

"Hiya, Eames, I'm Dean." Dean stretched out his hand, pulled it back, wiped it on his jeans, and stretched it out again. Eames did not shake it. All in all, Dean wasn't terribly surprised. 

The limo pulled away from the pick-up spot with a relatively nice purr, for a Mercedes at any rate, and Dean couldn't help being a little bit excited. The whole butler plus limo plus sobering up from the plane ride was finally making him realise that he was, indeed, in a country that was not the US for the first time in his life. At the very least for the first time in his adult life. He was fairly sure there had been that one time when his dad had driven too far and they'd ended up in Canada for several confused minutes, but he was also fairly sure that didn't really count. He pressed some more peanuts into his mouth and gazed vigilantly out the window as they left the airport and entered the M25. He wasn't quite sure what he expected. Perhaps something along the lines of all the Queen's horses and all the Queen's men, people wearing bowler hats and those big furry helmet-things, whatever they were called. Someone in a monocle, maybe some cricket. In the very least a couple of Union Jack's. Dean saw none of these things. What he did, in fact, see was cars, fields, some trees and a couple of houses. He did spot a '95 Ghia Coupe and had a laugh imagining Sam trying to get into one, but that was ten minutes into the trip, and he was getting slightly bored. Eames seemed intent on ignoring him until he absolutely had to be acknowledged, proven by the fact that Dean was not so subtly poking his seat with his dirty boots and the only thing Eames did was pull his shiny dress shoes slightly further away. Dean finished the peanuts and started in on the chips.

"So," he said loudly, "whereabouts in London does Talbot live?"

Eames threw him a glance and then kept looking out the window. "No where at all, sir." 

Dean was beginning to wonder if this guy had any more facial expressions or if that was it. 

"What?" Dean asked.

Eames took a breath that was like a sigh. Except posh and british. "Mr Talbot does not live in London. He lives in Surrey."

Dean scoffed, "What the hell is Surrey?"

If he wasn't mistaken that was slight irritation in the folds of Eames' brow, it felt strangely like a victory.

"A county just south of Greater London, sir."

"I'm pretty sure my dad said Talbot moved to London."

"Well, unfortunately, sir, Mr Talbot's position in space is not dependent upon your opinion on the matter of which space Mr Talbot is currently positioned in."

"What?" Dean asked. Okay, so maybe he was still a little bit drunk.

"Never you mind, sir."

Dean rubbed his forehead for a bit. "Okay, so how long until we get to this Surrey place?"

"Approximately 26 minutes, sir."

Dean slid farther down in his seat and picked at a torn piece of his jeans. He ate some more chips. He hummed Eye of the Tiger. He smacked his lips together. He investigated how many chips could fit into his mouth before they broke. He gave up his investigation. He picked apart and put an engine back together in his head. He filled his cheeks with air and slapped them.

"Do you mind, sir?" 

"So, how long is it now?"

He pulled out an honest to god pocket watch. Dean didn't think those existed outside of old movies.

"Approximately 19 minutes, sir."

Dean looked at Eames and Eames looked out of the window.

"You know you might as well talk to me 'cause I won't get easier to deal with." He was definitely still a little bit drunk.

Eames closed his eyes for a few seconds. "Very well, sir. What in particular would you like to talk about?"

"Well," Dean cleared his throat, "you don't happen to know anything about the uhm- the car I'm supposed to fix, do you?"

"Mr Talbot did indeed attempt to converse on the subject before I left to collect you. Unfortunately I must admit I do not understand much of his…" he wrinkled his nose a little, "lingo."

"Have you seen it?" He pushed down the urgency in his voice. It was a car, and he was not a girl. _You love that car_. Dean told Sam to shut his face.

Eames' lip curled in distaste, "I have indeed, sir, and if I may be so bold I fail to see why Mr Talbot is going through all this fuss for a lump of metal."

"Hey!" Dean growled and clenched his fists. Eames raised an eyebrow and they were quiet for a moment. Dean crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his foot. "… Does it look that bad?"

"I'm sure, sir, that once we get to Leatherhead you'll be able to make your own-"

"I'm sorry?"

"… Sir will be able to make his own estimation of the dama-"

"No, no. What was that you said about leather?"

"… Leatherhead is the name of the town holding Pachesham Manor, residence of Mr Talbot and a certain broken vehicle."

Dean guffawed. Eames continued to look at him. Dean blanched. "Holy shit, you're serious!" Dean laughed. After a moment, Dean continued to laugh. Eames looked on in distaste thinking that while the name 'Leatherhead' in itself might be of the amusing sort, it surely wasn't this level of downright hilarious. Dean, on the other hand, felt that he was now so far out of his comfort zone that the only reaction to have was, indeed, to laugh his ass off. When he was finished with this and dried his eyes he found the butler with a particularly sour look around his mouth. "Hey man," he threw out his arms semi-apologetically, "take no offense, you didn't name the damn place did you?" He smirked. Then he stopped smirking. "Shit, he named it that didn't he? Talbot bought the place and renamed it!"

The butler pulled a condescending face. "Mr Talbot may be wealthy, sir, but not even he is quite _that_ wealthy."

"Too bad," said Dean, hiding his relief and taking comfort in the fact that though this whole situation was funny, it wasn't _that_ funny. "Would make for one hell of an ice breaker at parties."

Eames went back to ignoring him. Dean couldn't blame him.

Several cars, fields, forests and houses later, the limo carrying the disgruntled butler and the misplaced mechanic exited the M25 and drove along smooth, far-stretching country roads that made said misplaced mechanic feel slightly less misplaced and more like what he most of all wanted was no longer whiskey but rather to be behind the wheel of a good car. This usually had much the same effect on him that whiskey did, but with none of the nasty after effects. He thought for a while on the last time he took a car down roads like these, purring engine, Zeppelin on the radio, metaphorical wind in his hair, and couldn't quite place it. He then thought for a while about how unnecessarily sad this made him and how he should really take his own words to heart and stop being a girl over cars. He then thought he heard Sam sigh his #7 bitch-sigh in his head, and was confused for a bit. He then wondered why there were people standing in the middle of a grassy field on the side of the road. Then he didn't have time to think anymore because they pulled off onto a dirt road and Eames was motioning out the window towards the literal fucking manor sprawled at the end of it. He gawked for a bit. Then he said "Are you kidding me?" because it felt appropriate. 

"Welcome to Pachesham Manor, Mr Winchester," Eames drawled as the car advanced on it, "I do hope you'll enjoy your stay."

"And down the rabbit hole I go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first ever WIP I've posted. I will upload once a week unless I'm watching Masterchef. 
> 
> I'm kidding.
> 
> Kind of.
> 
> VISUAL AIDS IS A THING!
> 
> The Pullman: http://sv.tinypic.com/r/2552l2v/8


	2. They Made Fun of my Monocle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet Talbot, and a certain broken vehicle.

**100 DAYS**

The house was, in one word: big. In another word: old, and in a third and fourth word: fucking intimidating. They wound towards it, all windows and ivy-covered grey stone, solid and unforgiving, projecting a general sense of 'holier-than-thou'-attitude that Dean did not appreciate. They passed through ornate gates, took a slow turn around the circular driveway leading up to the large front steps, pulled to a stop and all the while Dean felt like he should be wearing a cravat and riding a horse drawn carriage. He also felt like he really shouldn't be doing that at all and was thankful Sam couldn't read his mind. He did feel misplaced though; like he'd stepped straight in to a Jane Austen novel. Not that he knew what those were like. He certainly hadn't watched Sense and Sensibility on TV one night because he was drunk and a little sad and couldn't find the remote.

Eames stepped out without hesitation and held Dean's door open for him but Dean did not immediately follow. The part of his brain that would otherwise be responsible for moving his feet was currently occupied with moving his jaw in a repetitive up-and-down motion. Eames cleared his throat and Dean snapped to attention. He got out as unceremoniously as he could. 

"Fucking hell, Talbot." He said, because it felt appropriate. The raked gravel crunched under his feet and he dug around a bit with his toes while Eames went to the trunk to get his duffel, messing up the smooth lines mostly out of spite and a little because he felt like a kid with dirty hands in a room full of shiny objects. Eames cleared his throat again when he caught Dean at it, this time a little more admonishing than polite, and Dean made an effort not to stick his tongue out at him.

"If sir will follow me, I shall show sir to the drawing room, where sir may place sir's belongings until Mr. Talbot returns home."

"He's not here?"

"No, Mr. Winchester, Mr. Talbot is out dr-"

Dean stopped listening. See, he had spent his whole life around cars. Big cars, small cars; old cars, new cars; obnoxious cars and those kinds of cars that little old ladies who liked to squeeze his biceps drove that just fell to pieces no matter how good the care you lavished on them. He couldn't _look_ at a car without his brain informing him of the brand, year of make, and whether or not it was going to have trouble with the fuel lines in a couple of years. Dean's mind was tuned one hundred percent towards cars. Well, perhaps 70 percent, leaving some for the women and the booze. But still, there was no way that 70 percent of his brain was going to allow him to listen to anyone when an engine like _that_ could be made out in the distance. 

He turned in time to see a Rolls Royce Ghost tearing at a neck-breaking speed onto the gravel path leading from the main road. He winced at the brazenness of the revving engine; no matter how obnoxious your car was, there was no need to be unkind to it. Eames sighed from behind him. It was a new kind of sigh, or at least, one that Dean hadn't heard yet. This should count for something since he'd known Eames for less than an hour and had already discovered several of the ways the man could sigh. In this case it was the kind of sigh you could hear from a mother of three going on four hour's sleep as her excited child pulled yet another half-dead toad onto the living room carpet. Or, you know, something. The car barely slowed down before it screeched to a stop behind the limousine, flinging gravel in every direction. Dean wondered how many times a year they had to re-do the paint job on their cars. And put band-aids on their legs, and then decided he didn't want to know. The strangeness of seeing the right-hand door flung open was over-shone by the strangeness of the man stepping out. He was very different from John Winchester's friend from Dean's adolescence. 

"Well, pull me backwards on a horse and call me Nancy! If it isn't Dean Winchester!"

There were many confusing things about Mr. James Talbot, from Dean's perspective. Firstly there were the obvious and boring ones; the fact that he looked so much older than when Dean had last seen him and yet seemed to still look younger than John Winchester; the fact that he was dressed in an impeccable suit when Dean was used to seeing him in torn jeans and yesterdays wife-beater; the fact that he had a monocle. Then there were the other things; the strange American intonations in his English accent; the happiness with which he greeted Dean, as if they were long lost comrades rather than distant acquaintances of almost ten years ago; the fact that he drove a _Rolls Royce_. 

"James Talbot, and here I thought you had taste." Dean grinned and nodded towards the purple monstrosity. Talbot threw his head back and laughed.

"Oh, this old thing?" He patted the door and then slammed it shut, "Guilty pleasure, my boy, guilty pleasure. I just love the way it roars."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "You call it a roar, I call it a Chihuahua pretending to be a Rottweiler."

Talbot laughed again and shook his head, throwing his arms out and walking up to Dean. "John Winchester's boy," he grabbed Dean's shoulders, "nice to know some things don't change. You're just as sassy as you were as a teenager. It's good to see you, kid."

"You too, Talbot." And it was, strangely. 

James Talbot affected his surroundings much like a punch affected a face. Suddenly, fiercely, and with lasting effects. While the rest of him made Dean want to laugh, and also cry a bit because of the monocle, Talbot's smile reminded him of a too big leather jacket, Sammy's hand in his, and the smell of grease and cigarette smoke. "Although from this end a hell of a lot _has_ changed. Man, what are you _even_ wearing?" He gestured and spluttered a bit, "The obnoxious British 'car' and the mansion I could take, but what happened to the jeans? You're wearing half a pair of glasses for fuck's sake!"

Talbot clutched his vest. "It's a _suit_ , Winchester. It's a _monocle_. It's called _class_. Jeans are so a decade ago. And also a fortune ago." He winked and struck a pose. 

"I need a drink."

"That, my boy," he put an arm around Dean and steered him towards the steps, "we can arrange. Eames! Take the gentleman's luggage to his suite."

"Do you have scotch?"

"We have everything."

 

* * *

 

He did, indeed, have everything. 

"Holy fuck, Talbot."

"I know, Dean."

"Holy _fuck_ , Talbot."

"I know, Dean."

Talbot had lead him through the very big door, the very big hall - with the very big chandelier - the very big kitchen and down the not so big steps to what they were currently standing in front of. The urge to stare at chandeliers and mirrors and babies on the ceiling went away pretty quickly as Dean gaped and Talbot smirked. This wasn't so much a liquor cabin as it was a liquor wall. Which took up one of the four sides of what wasn't so much a wine cellar as it was a booze-jungle. 

"What did bars ever do to you?"

"They made fun of my monocle."

"What?"

"Nothing, look, here comes Eames with food!"

Dean didn't bother wondering how he hadn't noticed Eames ditching them. He was jet-lagged and hungry and there was food heading his way. More than food, actually; cheeseburgers. And Dean wasn't only hungry; he was starving.

"Oh, man, Talbot, you really know how to please a guy."

Talbot tapped him on the shoulder and Dean tore his gaze from the _silver plate_ to see him grinning and holding out a beer. 

"I think it's time you started calling me Jimmy."

Somewhere in the midst of the booze-jungle resided a couple of comfortable chairs and Dean decided this mansion thing wasn't so bad after all. Of course, that was before he tried the cheeseburgers. Dean Winchester will be Dean Winchester, so he ate four, but Dean Winchester will also be Dean Winchester, so he noticed how very not American they were and found them very not satisfying. He was tempted to insist on calling Talbot 'Talbot', as a demonstration of what he thought of this kind of betrayal, but the poor guy looked equally as unsatisfied, if a little less shocked, so Dean managed to forgive him. The beer helped.

"So, Jimmy… you flew me all the way out here. Are you gonna tell me what you did to m- that poor car?"

Talbot took a long sip from his beer. For a second he looked almost thoughtful, then he seemed to remember that thoughtful was not his thing and became himself once more.

"Oh, come on, boy! You only just got here, let's not talk business." He swirled his beer like it was a cocktail, "I want to know what you've been up to, I mean, how long has it been? You have to be at least nineteen by now."

"I'm twenty-six, dude."

He clutched at imaginary pearls, "Well pack me in a box, wrap it in love and deliver me at Jennifer Aniston's doorstep, you grew up fast, Dean Winchester!"

"And don't take this the wrong way, but you grew up weird." He was once again uncertain as to whether or not he wanted to laugh. Talbot aimed a thumb towards Eames.

"You spend ten years with this guy and then tell me what your defense mechanism is."

"I spent half an hour with him, I feel you, man."

"If you gentlemen are _quite_ done…" Eames drawled, "I believe sir was inquiring as to how Mr. Winchester has passed the years since sirs last met."

"Oh, Eames, light of my life" Talbot sighed sweetly, "You know we're only messing, I wouldn't give you up for all the cars in the world."

"If you say so, sir." He handed them two new beers. 

Talbot leaned closer to Dean, "Get me an American cheeseburger and we can talk about it."

Dean snorted a laugh.

"I heard that, sir."

Talbot blew him a kiss. "Anyhow, Winchester, my boy Eames is right, if you're that old you have to be out of college already, what did you study?"

"Please, do I look like a college graduate to you?"

"You didn't go to college?" He seemed uncharacteristically worried about this.

"Barely finished high school. Winchester's aren't the brainy sort."

"Really?" Talbot frowned, "I seem to recall John telling me Sam was off becoming a big shot lawyer person in California."

Dean smiled and sat a little straighter, "Yeah, he always was a smart little bugger, he'll be the best there is in a couple of years I'm telling you! But it's no thanks to the Winchester blood."

"Really now…" He smirked and sipped his beer, "you know you always stole his books."

"What?"

"When you were little", he demonstrated by putting his thumb and forefinger very close together, as if Dean at the age of five was a whooping five millimeters tall. "You made it seem like you did it to tease him but then you hid in your closet and read them all."

"Dude, why were you in my closet?" Dean certainly didn't remember reading any of Sam's silly books about space. Especially not one called 'Papa, Please Get the Moon for Me'.

"I was babysitting, I did some of that, you probably don't even remember it."

"I remember some." Sammy's hand, leather jacket, grease and cigarette smoke.

"Do you remember that one time I made your apple juice Irish 'cause you couldn't sleep?"

"You did what?"

"Nothing, my boy, nothing at all. So, taken over your dad's shop then?"

Dean considered pushing about that Irish-thing, but then he wasn't sure he really wanted to know. He also considered questioning why everyone seemed so damn intent on interviewing him on his life-choices today, if two people really equated 'everyone', but decided that doing that would only drag it on for longer and it really wasn't worth it.

"No, actually, I just work there, _which_ brings us back to…"

"Ah, yes, the Chevy. Nice car. I would have thought your dad would have moved on by now, he never seemed the sort to stay in one place for long,"

"He's also not the sort to give up on something." 

Talbot gave an amused hum.

"The car, Jimmy. I'm starting to feel like you're avoiding the subject."

"There's a difference between 'avoiding' and 'choosing not to pursue'" He made exaggerated motions with his hand and bottle. If this were a Tarantino movie, Dean would have casually pulled a gun out of his jeans and told Talbot that he had 'five seconds to talk, or you'll be eating metal'. Unfortunately Dean didn't have a gun and with his luck Eames was probably a black belt in all sorts of things.

"Jimmy." he chose to say instead.

"Ugh," Talbot chose to say, "You know, you were much more fun as a kid."

Dean smiled tightly.

Talbot frowned, and then sighed. A part of Dean wondered why he was so adverse to showing him the car. Although since that part's best guess was that the car was so messed up Talbot was afraid of how Dean would react, he wasn't keen on wondering for long. He'd come here to fix it, after all, there had to something to actually fix. And to be completely honest with himself, something Dean usually avoided at all costs, it wouldn't matter much if she was as Eames had described her. This was the Impala. He'd fix her.

"Fine, I'll show you the stupid car."

Talbot heaved his way out of his armchair, resolutely ignoring Dean's protesting 'hey', and started off back what Dean was fairly sure was the way they'd come. Once he'd gotten over his very, _very_ minor panic, and taken a couple of deep breaths to calm his suddenly erratic heart, he followed.

Then he ran back and left his bottle with Eames, and followed again.

He was lead back up the stairwell and through the kitchen, but instead of heading back to the enormous hallway of mirrors and angel-baby-paintings, they took a left down a not as enormous but still way too big corridor. Dean looked left and right at the doors they passed.

"Are we leaving the house at some point, or do you keep my car in one of the guest rooms?" He asked. Talbot started whistling. Dean wanted to punch him a little. 

But then they were at the end of the corridor and there was another door, one that looked just the same as the other ones had, but which led directly into a garage. 

"Wow." Dean said.

"I _know_." Talbot cooed.

It was a large space with a concrete floor and a low ceiling. Bright, overhead lights lit just about every nook and cranny, very much including the end wall holding a large variety of tools. Then, of course, there were the cars. Dean might have drooled just a little. There were fifteen or so, in varying degrees of finished state, from a Mustang polished within an inch of it's life to a small, very cool Chrysler with the wheels stacked off to the side and the hood up. He did not see an Impala.

"These are my proudest possessions!" Talbot threw his arms out to the room in general, "Come here Winchester, let me show you my Cadillac, you're going to love it!"

Talbot dragged him around the room for almost half an hour, pushing him towards the cars, telling him the brand and year – despite Dean in nearly every case already knowing – who he bought it from and what he'd had to do to fix it up. 

In a way it was a relief to hear that Talbot still dabbled in mechanics, it had been such a huge part of him when Dean was young, it would have been worse than the monocle or the _Rolls Royce_ to find out that he no longer allowed his hands to get grease-stained. 

"Yeah, this is all very cool, _very cool_ , and everything, Jimmy, but where's the Impala?"

Talbot sighed, "Such a one track mind, _fine_ , but you are going to test drive these babies later–"

"Oh, _no_ complaining there. At all."

"–come with me, your car is back here."

There was a door at the far side of the room, just next to the wall of tools, and when Talbot opened it, the first thing Dean saw was a scissor lift and a collection of scrap metal and there, sitting in the middle of the mess; was the Impala.

 

* * *

 

When Dean was fourteen he drove Sam to school for the first time. Sam had still been short back then, still been the 'little' part of 'little brother' and had let Dean ruffle his hair before he left the car to meet with friends he would have to make and remake another hundred times before they settled down. When Dean was twelve he had drunk his first beer on the hood, his dad beside him and the sun on the top of his head. He had coughed and wanted to spit it out, but forced it down instead, gripping the shiny metal under his hand. He was eleven when he had kissed someone for the first time. They were hiding behind the door on the side far of the motel, and she'd pressed her lips to his, said he wasn't to expect any more, and then run off, giggling. They'd left the state the next day. When he was nine he had fixed her for the first time. It had been a problem with the anti-freeze and to this day he remembered every single scrape of metal against greasy skin, every tool in the toolbox and every finger of his father's hand on his shoulder. He remember more clearly than anything the pride that filled him as they drove on, that he'd made her well. He'd told Sammy about it that night, when they lay in the backseat watching the street lights pass. Sam had wondered, in the innocent voice of a child, what magic was. Dean had thought long and hard, and then he'd said that magic was this really amazing thing but people often misunderstood what it really was. He'd said people thought magic was this unexplainable thing that only existed on other worlds, and he'd said that those people were wrong because they were surrounded by magic right now. "Listen, Sammy, what do you hear?" "The engine, Dean." "That's right. The engine. The engine is made up out of all these tiny little parts that do _nothing_ on their own but when you put them together in the right way they make that noise, and they make the car move. You see, Sammy? Like we're moving right now? Really really fast, right? You can't run this fast, but an engine can, because of all those little parts that do nothing. Isn't that magic, Sam?". Sam had been quiet for a long time, and Dean thought he'd fallen asleep there, with his snotty nose on Dean's throat, but then he whispered: "cheetahs can." "can what?" "cheetahs can run this fast." "well cheetahs are magic too. Go to sleep."

Dean hadn't cried many times in his life, and since he could remember he'd not done it sober. He wasn't going to now either, he refused to. There was no reason to. 

Since his dad had called him out from under the belly of a Porsche and told him that a car needed fixing, since the day after when he'd realised it was _this_ car, he had wondered what she would look like. Everything from scrapes and dents to a melted chunk of metal had passed through his imagination. 

In the end, Dean thought, it didn't matter much that she wasn't a lump of metal. In a way it might have been better. This way Dean could still recognise her, could see without a doubt that this was the car, _the_ Impala. This way she still felt the same under his hands. He didn't cry, but he bowed his head and gripped her roof with both hands, wishing he was back home where things made sense. 

 

"Dean…? What- do you know what time it is?" Sam's voice was synthetic through the receiver, bleary with sleep and confusion, but it was still Sam's voice. Dean's broke on the first try, so he tried again.

"Hey, Sam."

"Dean…!" He could hear the rustle of sheets, and a murmur in the background, Jessica, of course. "What's wrong, what's happened?"

He tried to laugh. He failed. He hated the thickness in his throat and the heat in his dry eyes. "Nothing, Sammy. Just wanted to let you know I'm at Talbot's place now, you threw such a hissy fit last time I didn't give you my every move so… yeah, sorry for waking you."

"Dean." He could nearly hear how his brother was scrubbing his face with his free hand. Could nearly _feel_ bitch face #17 AKA 'Dean you're avoiding talking about your feelings again and you need to stop or so help me'. "Just tell me, did you-uh… did you see the car?"

He tried to laugh again. He failed again. She was solid against his back. More solid than the concrete beneath his ass or the phone is his hand or any of the other things taking up space around him. As solid as a leather jacket and Sammy's hand in his. "Yeah, yeah I did. Talbot showed me to the garage and then, well, he said something about a one o' clock and then winked at me. I didn't ask." 

"And… how does she look?" Sam's voice was so very gentle.

"She's a sight for sore eyes." A sight for burning eyes that refused to stay as dry as he needed them to be. "But not too bad, I can fix her."

There was silence on the line, just for a few seconds, and then Sam asked:

"So how's Talbot?"

Dean tried not to sigh in relief. He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut. "yeah, yeah, he's good. He is _weird_ as _fuck_. Was he really that weird when we were kids?"

Sam chuckled. Dean could hear him moving again, probably leaving the bedroom to give Jess some peace while he talked to his pathetic brother. "I don't know, man, he was always a little strange. Didn't he once try to dye all our clothes pink?"

"Yeah, when you were like six and we'd been invited to that wedding. He wanted us to match the flowers."

"Right. Didn't he attend in jeans?"

"He did. Now he drives a Rolls Royce and wears a monocle."

Sam guffawed, "a what? A _monocle_? Dude I thought you were going to England not England during the eighteen hundreds!"

"Yeah, so did I, Sammy. But no, I get monocles, mansions and a snarky butler named _Eames_ who won't stop calling me _sir_."

"He calls _you_ , 'sir'? He's not getting paid enough."

"He probably makes more in a week than I do in a year, you should see this place Sammy. They have _angel babies on the ceiling._ "

Sam laughed and didn't say 'That's because your salary is an injustice'. Dean pressed the phone close to his ear. As far as sympathy went, that was pretty nice.

 

He did end up talking about the car. Eventually. Only after sharing detailed accounts of Eames snark and all of the separate ways that Talbot was not the tobacco-chewing redneck they used to know and love, obviously. Sam laughed and hmm:ed and made appropriate exclamations all in the right places, and Dean was grateful. 

"She's not so bad, actually." He was saying, "The left side doors are a little messed up, and she was on fire at some point–" he cleared his throat, "but the interior is salvageable. I'm going to need a fuckton of parts and a small fortune but I can do it. I can fix her."

"I'm glad, Dean." Sam said, and he sounded it. "Still going to take two months?"

"At least." He scoffed. "If I work day and night I could do it–"

" _Dean_."

"– _But_ Talbot has some amazing cars, man, and apparently I've got free range to drive them. I'm going to make myself acquainted with the British countryside in some sweet American Muscle."

"Good. You should." The smugness wasn't so unbearable this time, for some reason.

"Did you know there was a place called Surrey?"

"… Yes, Dean. Yes, I did."

 

* * *

 

He found Talbot in the kitchen, harassing Eames. 

With only a minor amount of 'it's _four in the morning for me, Jimmy, for crying out loud'_ , Talbot agreed to show Dean to his room so he could take a well-deserved nap. His room was, as it turned out, up two flights of winding stairs, through a just as winding corridor of dark grey stone – much more fitting to the exterior of the house than the first floor had been (and _much_ creepier) – and, in a word, ridiculous. 

Luckily for Talbot, Dean was too exhausted and hungover to bother complaining about the sitting area with the leather couch and armchairs, the open fireplace, the king-sized bed, the _five_ windows, the en-suite bathroom, the walk in closet (he brought one duffel goddammit), the surround system with the iPhone docking station (he didn't even _have_ an iPhone), or – because he really wasn't in Kansas anymore – the Polar Bear rug.

He opted to ignore it all. He could handle the insanity when he'd gotten a couple of hours' sleep, and just kicked off his shoes and fell face down on the bed instead.

Talbot tutted a little, and then left. "Don't burn the house down!" He said as a parting grace.

"How could I possibly burn the house down, it's stone." Dean murmured into one of the fifteen or so pillows, already half asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visual aids:
> 
> Talbot's House: http://sv.tinypic.com/r/29o29m1/8  
> Rolls Royce Ghost: http://sv.tinypic.com/r/245cvlv/8
> 
> Next week: CAS.


	3. American Coffee For Your Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet Castiel! And Dean yells at strangers.

**99 DAYS**

When he woke up, it was dark outside. 

He rolled out of bed, which took a few turns – when they say king-sized, they _mean_ king-sized – and stumbled to the en-suit to take a piss. 

The light flickered on the second he stepped through the door. He pissed, washed his hands and then his face, and gulped down a few mouthfuls of water, but as he rubbed his forearms dry with an engraved towel, he caught a glimpse of the rest of the room in the mirror over the sink. He turned slowly to take it in. 

He had a Jacuzzi.

"Okay, Talbot," he murmured to himself, leaning into the tub to inspect the massage heads, "you get points for this."

He wasn't tired anymore. According to his wristwatch it was mid-afternoon in Kansas, which meant he'd slept a lot longer than he had done in one go since he was a kid. He felt jittery and out of place, and didn't particularly want to spend more time in this room right now, despite the sweet ass Jacuzzi. So he put his shoes back on and started the trek back to the garage. Just like in the bathroom, the hallway lights got switched on as soon as he opened the door and he cursed softly in surprise. It was the same throughout the house, as soon as he got close to a room or a corridor that was dark, it illuminated itself. On one hand, it made the corridors less creepy to walk through, and then again on the other hand the whole motion sensor thing _was_ a little creepy in itself.

He got a little lost. 

In his defense, it was only twice.

Within a quarter of an hour, he was standing in front of the Impala. The light in this room did not turn on by itself, but the moon shone dimly through the single, dust-speckled window, and as he stroked his hands over her dented hood, he figured that would be enough. He didn't admit, even to himself, that he enjoyed just feeling the cool metal under his hands, or that he even closed his eyes a little. 

"Okay, baby girl." He said softly, "let's get you up and running again, shall we?"

And he got to work. 

 

* * *

 

Talbot found his feet sticking out from under the Impala, moving to an imaginary beat. 

Dean heard the door open, but didn't stop working. "Hey, Jimmy, that you? Great, I've been working for a while now and this is definitely do-able but you don't have half the parts I'm going to need here. Unless you have another storage somewhere? In any case I'm going to have to toss about 50 percent of the engine, and there is no way in hell I'm using anything but original parts, which I'm willing to bet you don't have lying around. Do you have some contacts in the area I could–"

"Nope." Talbot said loudly.

"What? Come one, this car deserves the best, and you asked for my help–"

"Nope." Talbot said, even more loudly. "Nope, nope, nope." He took a firm grip of both Dean's ankles and pulled him out from under the car. 

"Hey!" Dean called out. For an older guy, he was surprisingly strong.

"You are not going to be stuck in the garage all day, you are coming to eat breakfast, and you are going to enjoy it. Eames made eggs."

"But–"

" _Nope_." He started pushing Dean out of the room, grabbing his tools and throwing them behind himself to lie discarded on the floor.

" _Jimmy_ –"

"Breakfast!"

And that was that.

The dining hall, as it turned out, was more suitable to hold 50 people than three, but Talbot seemed right at home. They sat one one end of a very long table and Eames served them plates overflowing with pancakes, bacon, french toast, and eggs cooked a hundred ways to Sunday.

"British culture is great, don't get me wrong," Talbot said through his first mouthful – his monocle was dangling from his breast pocket, and his bow tie was a little crooked, but Dean was wearing the same clothes he'd put on the morning of the day he flew from Kansas, so he still looked about a hundred and twenty times classier than Dean did, "but there is nothing like a good, american breakfast. It took a few turns for my man Eames to get it right – Eames! Join us! Have some bacon – but once he got it, he _got_ it." He leaned over to mutter in Dean's ear, his eyes suddenly wide with mock-warning; "Don't question the tea."

Eames joined them at the table and, very slowly and without loosing eye contact with Talbot, poured them all tea. Then he sat delicately next to Talbot, but didn't touch the food. Dean wondered if he ate at all, or if British people could somehow survive on sass alone. The eggs were good, but the tea mostly tasted like sweet water, and he couldn't really see what the fuss was all about. After his first sip, he opened his mouth to ask, but caught Talbot in the corner of his eye, violently shaking his head behind his teacup. Dean decided it was in his best interest to just take another sip.

While watched with vague disgust – Eames – and proud delight – Talbot –, Dean ate an amount of food roughly the equivalent of an average McDonald's lunch rush. 

Then he took a shower, because Talbot said he stinking up his English hallways with American malodour. (Dean wasn't sure what malodour meant, but he went with insulted anyway.)

The Jacuzzi, by the way, was awesome.

 

* * *

 

Walking around the manor at night had felt like a weird dream. Now though, in broad daylight, after a hearty (heart-attack-y) breakfast, it felt entirely too real and way too far from home. The thing was, Dean didn't really do stuff like this. He didn't 'go to England', he didn't spend time with butlers and whatever the hell Talbot had become. He didn't sleep in king-sized beds and bathe in Jacuzzi's. 

He didn't work on _the Impala_. 

His life back home may not be bringing him any 'adventurer of the year'-awards, or any real excitement beyond getting a pretty-neat-but-never-the-Impala car into the shop every once in a while, but it was a nice life. It made sense. Dean liked when things made sense. England so far made zero sense. 

The more he looked at the hallways, the babies on the ceiling, the fireplace and the _polar bear-rug_ which he was going to ask Talbot about at some point because shooting polar bears has to be very illegal, the more his skin itched. The more he missed Sam. So he went back to the garage. After a short detour to the booze-jungle for some beers: Talbot was off somewhere in his Cadillac and what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

The Impala was a car at least, and cars he knew very well. 

She disassembled under his hands. He plucked piece after piece from her – the car who had been his house, his bed, his mother, and his friend. He felt the weight of the metal, the soft and the sharp edges, knew most of them intimately despite the years that had passed. As she shrunk, he did too. Every chunk he took out of her made him raw, like it was his own skin he was peeling off, and he felt bare to the world, protected only by measly cotton and denim, four stone walls and the misshapen skeleton of all he used to know.

The beers ran dry quickly. The same could not be said for his eyes. 

When he couldn't stand looking at her anymore, he sorted through the junk lying around the room. Anything that might be useful went in one corner, the rest in another. He ended up with one very big pile, and one very small one. Because his life was a cruel, cruel comedy, the piles were not in his favour. 

There was a knock on the door as he was lugging a piece of unidentifiable scrap metal across the room and Eames could not have looked as out of place standing among the tires and tools if he'd been a frog in a production of Hamlet. Or, you know, a butler in a garage. Carrying a tea-tray. 

Eames looked in distaste at Dean's greasy demeanor. "I thought sir might like a cup of tea." He sounded as if he was regretting this thought down to the very center of his being. 

Dean smacked his dry lips. His throat and head was fuzzy from the beers, and while it was a pleasant feeling, some tea might do well for his productivity. 

"You know, that doesn't sound half bad."

Eames nodded and poured him a cup. When he took it, it was warm against his hands and a little like he imagined drinking silk would be like on his throat. That turned out to be an even more pleasant feeling. He must have made some appreciative noise, because Eames almost, almost, smiled a little. He didn't say anything about Dean's red eyes.

"You know what, Eames? You're pretty cool." Dean said, and drank his tea. 

 

* * *

 

**95 DAYS**

Dean was sick of tea. No, he was not only sick of tea, he was sick and tired of tea. Actually, he was nauseous and exhausted of the stupid drink. Firstly, it wasn't even a drink. It was kind of water but really really not; it had caffeine but not enough to actually make a difference; it was a little like eating leaves but a lot like drinking something that tried to taste like leaves. Secondly, it _wasn't even a drink_. It didn't make you unthirsty, it didn't speed you up, didn't slow you down, didn't make women hotter than they were. It had, literally, no purpose. Why the British were so extremely fond of the strange concoction he would never understand, and wasn't very keen on trying either. Of course when Dean had tried to explain this to Eames he had gotten a look so snarky and words so mean and yet so very very polite that he still hadn't quite recovered from the confusion of it. 

He was also sure the tea was getting slightly more disgusting every time after that particular monologue. To be honest he was a little sick of Eames too. He was so… _British_ ** _._**

Dean wasn't british. Dean was American. He was from Kansas god dammit, he wasn't made to survive on weak leaf water, he was a man! He needed coffee. 

"I need coffee" he said. 

"Whatever you say, sir." Eames kept pouring tea. 

"Coffee, Eames. Black liquid, makes you brain go yihoo? Tastes like nectar of the gods and brings weak blood vessels to all who partake it?" He poked the tire in front of him with a wrench. Eames kept pouring tea.

"As you say, sir."

"Often taken with milk and sugar? At this point preferably ingested directly into my veins?"

"Indeed, sir." Holy hell by this point the mug _had_ to be full, and yet, Eames kept pouring.

"Tea doesn't cut it for a red-blooded American, Eames. It's too healthy, I've been drinking the sh- uh, the stuff for weeks and I'm feeling all…" he waved the wrench in a haphazard manner in front of his chest, "cleansed or some shit. You gotta help me out."

Eames kept pouring, but raised an eyebrow.

Dean sighed. "Is there any way, on this posh and green earth, that would will bring me a cup of coffee within the next month?"

Eames stopped pouring and handed him the cup.

"Right," Dean said. "I'm going out, keep an eye on my car."

He gave the cup back to Eames without drinking, and, for the first time in the five days since Dean had been in England and the many many times Eames had brought him tea and casually stood around while he worked like an overbearing babysitter, the butler gave him an honest to god facial expression. What that facial expression was, was complete and utter affront. If Dean hadn't been suffering from severe caffeine withdrawal, he could have almost felt bad. 

Instead, he took the key to the '62 Imperial Crown off the wall, pressed the button to open the garage door, and got the flippin' hell out of there.

The Chrysler was a very nice car, which he would have been able to appreciate more if he hadn't felt like the seven dwarfs were tap-dancing on the inside of his skull, and he was driving again for the first time in nearly a week, which he would have remembered if he hadn't been suffering from a caffeine-less hangover for the first time in his life. In the state of mind he was in, he only noticed that there were people standing around in fields again and that the gearshift hitched in two places when he turned right towards London and Leatherhead. Which he found very annoying. If this was the quality of careTalbot had on his cars, Dean was going to have to have words with him. What was also very annoying was that he drove several hundred meters before that voice in his head that sounded like Sam reminded him that he was currently on the wrong side of the road. 

 _You could have hit someone, you know_ , Sam's voice said, so Dean told it to shut up and drove on, this time on the left-hand side. Neither he nor his headache liked that one bit.

Leatherhead (the name of that town wasn't funny anymore, just annoying) was only a ten minute drive from Pashesham Manor, and he spotted a coffeeshop soon after the town sign, nestled between a candy store and travel agency. While it went against every principle Dean had to give money to any place with a name as ridiculous as "Taste 'Buds", at this point, he couldn't give a crap.

It took him five minutes to park, only because an old lady in a Skoda was pulling out from her parallel park slower than a tortoise from a spa-treatment. But there was no way he was going off to find a place to park that was any further from his future caffeine-source than what was physically (and legally) possible. So he waited. He waited and muttered words under his breath that Sam would have smacked him for even thinking, and when the lady finally, _finally_ pulled out he did the fastest park he'd done in his life and threw himself out of the cars and through the doors.

"So who do I have to sell my soul to to get some fucking American coffee in this godforsaken would-be-speaking-German-if-it-weren't-for-us-country?" He said. Okay shouted. 

The people sitting in sofas and armchairs around the shop stared at him. The people standing in line stared at him. The woman currently pouring hot water into a cup stared at him. The guy paying for his drink stared at him – although he looked like Dean was the best thing to happen all day, rather than shocked and a little scared like the others, so Dean wasn't worried about him. The shouting may have been a _bit_ uncalled for though, since the hot water ran over the top of the cup and over the woman's hand and she said "Bollocks!" almost as loudly as Dean had demanded coffee. 

The door to what was probably the kitchen (Dean did not care unless the kitchen was where the coffee came from) opened and a man said: "Meg, please don't swear."

"You're American?" Dean asked.

The man gave him a long look. "Sir, you are disturbing the other costumers, I'm going to have to ask you–" 

"No but you're American?" He interrupted. Because this was the first non-british, non-Talbot person he'd met since he got her what felt like a month ago. It was important.

The man narrowed his eyes at him. "Yes…" He said, almost like a question, and that was just un-patriotic of him. 

"I'm gonna need some coffee. You understand that, right? You're American, you know we can't survive on that weird leaf-water-thing, right? You gotta help me out with some coffee." He'd taken a few steps forwards and his hands were pressed flat on the counter and he was kind of leaning over it and the staff were sharing worried glances. (The guy at the till just looked like he was up to something). 

The American kept looking at him, "Sir, if you sit down and stop bothering the other patrons I will bring you some coffee–"

"American co–"

" _American_ coffee as soon as I have a moment."

Dean stared at him. 

"… Which I will have right now." He conceded.

Dean could have kissed him. "Strong. Please." He said, and then collapsed in the closest empty armchair. 

He pulled his phone out of his pocket to text Sam:

 

 **Dean:** "sitting in a coffee shop. happy now?"

 

 **Sam** : "\ o /"

 

Dean wasn't even going to try to figure out what that meant.

A mug of steaming coffee was set down on the table in front of him and Dean had his hands on it before the other American had fully let it go. He could feel his mouth filling with saliva even as he lifted it and then– ah, and then: heavenly coffee. Delicious, bittersweet, warm, soothing coffee. Coffee, coffee, coffee. 

He was fairly sure he let out some kind of half-sexual noise. 

When he looked up, the American was walking back towards the kitchen.

"Hey," Dean said, and he stopped and looked back, "this is really good, what did you put in it?"

The guy looked at him blankly. "Coffee." He said.

"Right. Well. Thanks. And, uh, sorry about the shouting."

"We get all sorts around here. Even slightly aggressive mechanics." 

"What?" Dean said. "How do you know–?"

"Luckily for you, we don't have a dress code." He said. And walked away.

Dean looked down at himself. He was kind of covered in grease and engine oil. And by 'kind of' he meant 'completely'. "Right." He said to absolutely no one.

Now that Dean had caffeine in his system, he had presence of mind to notice that the American accent, the awesome coffee-making skills, and the slight adversity to normal conversational technique also came with a very nice walking-away-view. By which he meant ass. Very nice ass. Not that it mattered.

His phone vibrated:

 

 **Sam** : "Make friends!!"

 

 **Dean** : "i have friends."

 

 **Sam** : "lol"

 

* * *

 

**88 DAYS**

For a week, Eames didn't talk to him. Oh, he still brought tea, sure, but he did it more passively aggressively than Dean had ever seen anyone do anything ever, and he stopped standing around in the background while Dean worked. Which was fine, really. Dean was relieved. It was weird having someone stare over your shoulder. Especially a butler you didn't particularly like. Dean did not miss him at all. The guy was amusing, sure, but definitely easier to appreciate from a distance. Yeah. 

Talbot actually gave him a clip 'round the ears when he found out. 

"I _told_ you not to question the tea." He sighed and handed Dean a glass of scotch. He'd come to find Dean the second he got back from– wherever, and dragged him away from the Impala (less literally this time though) to have a drink in the booze-jungle.

Dean rubbed his head. "Well how was I supposed to know he'd take it so personally? I needed some coffee, I _like_ coffee. And if I remember correctly, you used to drink buckets of the stuff. Don't tell me you don't sneak off for a cup every once in a while."

"I _never_." Talbot said. "And even if I did, I wouldn't _tell Eames_." 

"Can I go back to work now?"

"Of course not, we're going golfing."

So they went golfing. 

It was, in a word… weird. But at least now he knew what all those people standing around in fields were doing. Being bored out of their skulls, that's what.

 

For a week, Dean continued to visit Taste 'Buds. He learned a few things. Firstly; not to flirt with Meg the waitress. He learned that the hard way. Secondly; that the American's name was Castiel. He learned that not because Castiel _told_ him, but because he read his name tag and wasn't corrected when he started calling him that. Thirdly he learned that Castiel and that one customer that hadn't been freaked out by Dean's "little outburst" (named Gabriel, apparently) were in some way related. He learned that because he overheard them referring to a "Cousin Balthazar" and just decided to interpret that as a shared extended family member rather than a code for a shared mafia boss or drug dealer or cartel leader. He also learnt that theirs was a relationship of long-suffering sighs and annoyance (on Castiel's part) and a lot, a _lot,_ of smirking (on Gabriel's part). Dean wasn't sure he liked Gabriel a terrible amount. Something about the guy was unnerving, like if you turned away for a second he might steal your belongings and draw penises on them. Or give you a wedgie. 

Fourthly; he learned that Castiel didn't work on Wednesdays. He learned that from the horrible, horrible cup of coffee Meg made him. He couldn't _know_ that she'd done something with it, not for _sure_ , but he was fairly sure she did not approve of his flirting. At all. (In any case where would she even get the cat piss.) He decided he could survive without coffee on Wednesdays. 

 

For the first couple of days, Dean had just driven to Leatherhead, had his coffee, and driven back, but it had started to feel like a waste of time (and the change of scenery was kind of nice) so he started to hang back a little. Drink his coffee a little slower, relax a little further into his chair, be a little more extremely bored… Which was a problem up until the Friday that was his seventh visit to Taste 'Buds.

"You'll spill your coffee." Castiel said over his shoulder.

They'd gotten slightly better at conversations in the last week. They weren't going to be holding any heated discussions anytime soon, but they'd definitely improved from their first couple of times Dean tried. Up was basically the only direction they could go from:  "So, your name, where'd you get that?" "I'm sorry?" "Your name?" "My name?" "Castiel?" "My parents." "Oh. Right. But I mean– and you're gone."

Dean huffed. He was jiggling his leg so hard his whole body was vibrating, and the coffee was splashing dangerously close to the rim. Who could blame him, really, the English countryside was _boring_ , the four walls of that tiny side-garage was _stifling_ , Eames was still _furious_ , Talbot was still _infuriating_ , the coffee was full of _caffeine_ … 

He set his cup down so Castiel could refill it. 

"I have a question for you, Castiel."

"Alright, Dean."

"Does nothing ever happen here at all?"

Castiel thought about it for a second. "We get deliveries on Mondays." He said in a slow, serious voice. 

"I meant in this town."

"Gabriel's shop gets deliveries on alternate Thursdays." 

Dean felt kind of mean for wanting to laugh, so he didn't. 

"I'm going to die from boredom." Dean stated, and picked up his refilled coffee. It did splash over on his fingers this time, and he cursed, switched hands and sucked the excess coffee off his fingers. It was good shit, he was not wasting it. 

When he looked up, Castiel was gone but the door to the kitchen was sliding closed. 

"Castiel says that you can use the computer in the corner." Meg said to him a little later, as he was paying for his coffee.

"Rea–"

"For the cheap price of your soul."

Clearly flirting with her had been a big mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visual Aids:
> 
> The Imperial Crown: http://sv.tinypic.com/r/352grif/8


	4. The English Countryside for Dummies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a road trip, and a not-date.

**84 DAYS**

Dean was drunk.

Dean was very, very drunk. He wasn't crying though. No, he definitely wasn't crying (anymore). 

He'd slammed his way out of the garage, tore through the hallways and rooms, shoved past Eames. He'd drunk until he was dizzy and then drunk some more. It hadn't helped much. 

"Dean?"

He didn't remember calling Sam. He remembered _thinking_ about Sam. Remembered aching with the memory of Sam's tiny hand in his, of Sam's adoring eyes staring up at him, but not actually picking his phone out of his pocket and dialing the number. Apparently he had. 

This was his life now. He was sitting on the cold marble floor of a wine cellar that continued to be stupidly big, calling his kid brother so that he could cry to him about a fucking army-man he found in a car he had been hired to go to England to fix by a guy with a monocle and a butler. This was his life. 

"Dean, why are you laughing?"

With much effort, he wheezed out: "I don't know– I don't know how to get _out_?"

"… Of the closet? Of England? Of this sweet, sweet groove? You have to be more specific."

"Of the–" pause for manic laughter, "of the _booze-jungle_."

"The what."

"I _got lost in the booze-jungle_." He threw his free arm out, "I literally do not know the way out."

"What's wrong Dean?"

"What are you talking about, I'm on a roller coaster that just goes up–"

"Dean, please." And, well, now he sounded sad, and Dean didn't feel like laughing anymore.  

"Do you remember that time we lived in Oregon for a bit?" His throat was full with words he wasn't saying. "We'd been in the car for weeks–" because Dad hadn't wanted to stop, "and you were so bored you shoved that army man in the ash tray and we tried to get it out before he noticed–" 

"Yeah, I remember."

Dean put a shaking hand to his face. "He was so mad."

Sam scoffed, and it was only about 50 percent bitterness. "What's this about, Dean?"

He swallowed a couple of times and ground his teeth together. "Dad was doing some jobs and he left us in the car and I shoved those legos in the air vent and they never stopped rattling?"

"Sure, Dean. I remember that."

"They're still there. They're still fucking there, Sam."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

 

* * *

 

**80 DAYS**

"I need these parts, Jimmy."

Dean shook the notebook in front of his face. The Impala was not so much an Impala at the moment as it was an organized mess, and if he was going to get done in anywhere close to two months, he had to start actually putting things together. Talbot had enough scraps lying around that Dean wasn't left wanting in any part of the skeleton of the car. The engine though, the hydraulics system, the _interior_. He needed connections, he needed dealers, he needed, at the very least, a junk yard he could scour. He _needed_ original parts. He wanted American mechanics who knew what they were doing.

Talbot wore a flowery apron over his suit. He was currently dusting the top of the cabinets in the lounge on the second story, feather duster from somewhere around the fifteenth century in hand, and a fine scarf wrapped around his head. For some inexplicable reason, he was still wearing the monocle. Dean didn't know if he wanted to laugh or kick his heels and go back to Kansas. Literally.

"Jimmy?"

"Could you give me a boost, I forgot my stepping stool in the library and these shelves get higher every year."

"Jimmy."

"Well, Dean, either that or I'm shrinking, and if you're insinuating that I'm getting old, I'm sorry, I'm going to have to put you in time out."

Dean rubbed his temples. "Come on, Talbot, I don't have the energy for this."

Talbot whacked him with the feather duster. "Dean! I told you to call me Jimmy." 

Dean glared at him. "Shouldn't Eames be doing that?" He asked.

In return for that, he got a scoff, and a "please." after which Talbot just kept dusting.

 

 **Dean:** "talbot's wearing a flowery apron."

 

 **Sam:** "!!!"

 

So he spent the day at 'Taste Buds, slowly and painstakingly typing and scrolling through Google on the computer in the corner, trying to find anyone in the vicinity of London or Surrey that could possibly have parts from a '67 4-barrel, V8 engine. He sent over twenty e-mails. Believe it or not, the English countryside wasn't a mechanic's dream. 

Castiel refilled his cup three times while he was there.

The first time he offered a quick, absent-minded smile. The second time, stood at Dean's shoulder for several moments, but said absolutely nothing. The third time, he asked what Dean was 'up to'. It was weird, but kind of nice. (He smelled like coffee beans, sugar and a little like burning ozone, not that it mattered)

"Having the first promising moment of a very long day, is what I'm up to, Castiel." He said and took a long drink.

"Have you found what you're looking for?"

As Dean got to know Castiel (with baby steps, he might add) he learnt to not be surprised or uncomfortable with his blunt and serious speech-pattern, his very direct eye-contact, or his slight problem with personal space. It was just the way he was, Dean supposed. It was kind of refreshing, to be honest, to talk to someone who didn't wrap their words in five kinds of enigmas. Or, for that matter, ulterior motives, jokes, or passive aggressive politeness. Dean was sick of passive aggressive politeness. (No, Eames had still not forgiven him for the tea-comment. This morning his tea had been scalding hot. He still couldn't really feel his tongue.) Castiel was unsurprising. Dependable, you might say. And he made delicious coffee.

"I think I have."

 

* * *

 

 **Sam:** "How's the car? Talbot still refusing to help??"

 

 **Dean:** "ok. yeah, but going looking for some parts myself tomorrow."

 

 **Sam:** "Don't get lost!!"

 

 **Dean:** "f u"

 

* * *

 

**79 DAYS**

There were several reasons why Dean was lost, but it definitely had nothing to do with his poor map-reading skills. (Maybe like 12 percent of it had to do with his map-reading skills, but no one needed to actually know that). Mostly he blamed the English countryside, but also road signs, the car, the English countryside, the map, the address, the English countryside, a lack of caffeine, the rain ( _the rain_ )… but honestly mostly the English countryside. 

He peered up at the sign, and then down at the map. He looked back up at the sign, and then at the map again. He'd taken to leaning over it to protect it somewhat from the downpour, which meant that his back was soaking wet, but the paper was still getting soggy and the text was blurring into the green background. By now it could have been saying just about anything, but it still sure as hell didn't match the road sign. 

A sheep bleated. He told it to shut up. 

English rain was cold as fuck and that's all he had to say about it. He got back in the car. The windshield wipers went furiously from side to side, managing to look about as desperate as it's possible for inanimate objects to look, and still failing miserably in keeping the rain off the glass. 

Sam had spent the last year trying to get him to buy an iPhone or "if you don't want to conform to societal pressure, get some other brand. Just for god's sake join us in the twenty-first century. The time for 50's cars and 50's rock is passed, and you need to get over it". Dean didn't want a smartphone. If other people wanted to spend their lives bent over a tiny electronic device, that was their prerogative, but Dean sure as hell wasn't going to. The built-in GPS would have been nice now, though.

He picked a direction at random (because actually trying to figure out the way had worked like shit so far) and kept driving. 

 

Three hours later, he stood dripping wet on the welcome mat of 'Taste Buds. It said "Oh no, not you again.", he'd never noticed that before. It seemed like a strange thing to write on a welcome mat. Dean highly suspected Gabriel to be behind it. He half-heartedly tried to wipe his feet on it, which didn't help. 

He looked up when Castiel draped a blanket over his shoulders and started gently pushing him towards the kitchen doors. 

"Your welcome mat is stupid." He said, except his teeth were shattering like they were trying to shake right out of his skull, so it came out more like… well, not that anyway. 

"I can't understand a word you're saying, Dean. I will make you some soup."

The problem hadn't really been the fact that he got lost. Being lost in a vehicle with heating isn't so bad, but once he'd actually found the town his contact was supposed to live in, and the road he thought would lead to the garage he was looking for, he hadn't been able to take the car any further. So he walked. In the rain. And the mud. And the cold. 

Note to anyone who would ever have to scour the English countryside for a 6-cylinder smog pump, don't do it in a '73 Dodge Challenger. They were not made for mud-paths. Neither were his boots, evidently. 

Castiel led him straight through the café, ignoring they many looks they got, and into the small stainless steel kitchen. It was probably just because Dean was cold and miserable, but Castiel's hands were remarkably firm and warm on his upper arms, far warmer than the towel he was wrapped in.

The towel seemed mostly in the way, to be honest. 

He was sat down on a bar stool at a counter and Castiel looked at him for a long moment before he turned and pulled a pot out of a cabinet.

"You're actually making me soup? I'm not that cold."

"I'm making you soup, Dean. You're shaking."

He kind of was shaking. 

 

* * *

 

So Castiel made him soup, and Dean had a wonderful view of his ass while he did. He's only a little ashamed for staring intently at it. It was not only a great ass. There were great asses, and there were Great Asses. Castiel definitely had a capital A ass. He wouldn't have been ashamed at all for ogling if the guy hadn't been such an awfully nice person and Dean hadn't honestly liked him. 

"Were you pushed in a lake?"

Dean looked up from The Ass. Castiel was stirring the pot, but turned to look at him questioningly. Dean waited a moment to see if he was kidding. Apparently not.

"Uh, no. I just got caught in the rain."

Castiel stared at him.

"For half an hour."

Castiel kept staring at him.

"Okay maybe an hour. Or two."

Castiel narrowed his eyes slightly at him.

"I got lost and walked in the rain for two and a half hours, okay! But I blame the map!"

He smiled and turned back to his pot. "Where were you going, in the rain for two and a half hours?"

Dean started rubbing the towel through his hair. "Well, you know I'm here to fix a car for James Talbot, right?"

"The wealthy American who decided to settle down in the previously historically protected Manor a couple of miles from here? Yes, I know of him."

"Yeah, him. The car was pretty damaged and I have to replace a lot of parts, except I'm not going to use any old part, you know? It's gotta be original, and Talbot is being infuriatingly unhelpful, but I found this guy in this place called Andover? And he said he had a bunch of stuff I could buy– I suppose 'found' is pretty fucking relative here, seeing as he seems to live nowhere." Castiel set a bowl of something that smelled freaking delicious in front of him. Plus a cup of coffee. "Wow, you are good."

"I know Andover." Castiel said.

"Holy freaking fuck this is the best thing I have ever put in my mouth what is in this shit holy fuck." Dean shoveled five or ten more spoonfuls into his mouth, and he did not give a damn that it was technically too warm because he was never going to settle with just having Castiel's coffee again hell noes he was going to have all the soup, all of it. But also what. "Also, what?"

Castiel was for once not staring straight at Dean, but rather somewhere around his left shoulder, and he looked a little flushed. "I know Andover." He said. "I could probably help you out."

And that's how Dean and Castiel decided to go on a road trip together. 

 

* * *

 

**78 DAYS**

Dean picked up Castiel and two travel mugs of coffee from the sidewalk in front of Taste 'Buds at noon the next day. 

"Don't you work on Mondays?" He asked into the warmth of delicious, delicious coffee. (Eames had stopped making the tea disgusting, and started giving him a cup an hour and staring at him until he drank it. He had pissed three times already today.)

"Meg took my shift."

"That's uncharacteristically nice of her–"

"For my first-born." 

Dean choked on his coffee. While he chuckled, Castiel looked blankly at him. So he stopped. 

"Right. Well. Let's just go before she confiscates your private parts for insurance."

Castiel directed him out of Leatherhead and on to the M3, which was admittedly a much faster way to travel than the smaller roads Dean had ended up on, if more boring. Today's '66 Ford Mustang had quite the engine on it though. Clearly not all original parts, but nice all the same. At least, that's what the speedometer was indicating. 

What the awkward silence was indicating, was that Dean and Castiel still kind of sucked at conversation. Talbot had taken the time to completely replace the engine on this thing, but hadn't bothered fixing the radio. Of course.

"So—"

"What–"

Dean considered banging his head against the steering wheel.

"Go ahead, Dean." Castiel nodded at him.

"I was just gonna ask, do you know much about cars?"

Castiel crunched up his eyebrows. "I suppose that depends on your definition of 'much'. Are we comparing me to the average non-car owner or are we comparing me to you, because the answers will be quite different." 

"You don't _own a car_?"

If nothing else, that started a conversation. Forget what he said about not having any heated discussions anytime soon, Castiel was very willing to argue on why he didn't have a car. Almost as willing as Dean was to counter every single one of those arguments with one of his own. Like "I don't travel that much" and "It's expensive" and "Gabriel can give me a ride" and "a Ford" and "2008, I think, why?"  were _good arguments_. Please. 

"Your phone, Dean." Castiel said.

"What do you mean, _my phone_ , what, do you not like driving or something?"

"You're phone is chiming, you have a text message."

"Oh, right." 

 

 **Sam:** how'd it go–

 

Castiel snatched his phone out of his hand. 

"Hey, what are you doing?" He protested.

"You're driving." Castiel said, and _started typing_ , "It's against the law to text while driving."

"What are you writing? Dude! What are you writing?" Dean craned his neck to see and swerved a little on the road. Castiel gave him a hard look. 

"Eyes on the road."

"But what are you saying!"

"Sam: how did it go yesterday, question mark, question mark." Castiel read, like he was reading out an order, or straight from the phone book, "Dean: got lost. Trying again today. Castiel is helping me."

"Don't _tell him I got lost_."

Castiel looked at him, and seriously he should get an award for that face, Dean didn't know a person could _look_ so mildly confused and interested while having stolen someone's fucking phone. "Too late." He said. "Who's Sam?"

"My annoying little brother."

The phone chimed again.

"He's asking who I am." 

Dean glared at him. He genuinely wished he could be more than fake-annoyed at him. (But that _face_.) "Tell him you're an annoying barista who should take a class or two on personal space and how to respect it."

Castiel nodded and typed. 

For a moment, they drove in silence. Then, when Sam answered, the silence continued for a bit. Castiel was frowning down at the phone.

"What did he say?" Dean asked, and picked up his coffee in an attempt to seem casual.

"He wants to know if this is a date."

The coffee went up Dean's nose. 

" _What_?" He wheezed. "Tell him to get his head out of his ass and mind his own fucking business, Jesus Christ he goes to law school could he stop acting like a high schooler?"

"Your brother is in law school?"

Dean grinned, "Hell yeah, he's brilliant."

And that conversation got them all the way to Andover.

 

Castiel turned out to be extremely helpful in navigating the many small roads through the woods where Dean had gotten lost. In 15 minutes flat, he got them from the main road to the garage, where Dean picked up and payed for his smog pump, as well as a cruise control harness, a battery tray, a linear wire loom, and a list of names of people all over England who might be able to help him with the rest. The woman who sold it to him even knew who Talbot was. Apparently, he'd been making quite a reputation for himself in restoring American classics on the English countryside. 

All in all, it was a smooth transaction, or it would have been, if Castiel hadn't said "yes, please" to "a cuppa for the road". 

 

"I am _so sick of tea_." Dean groaned when they were finally back in the car.

"I've been wondering what you have against it. You were very insistent when we first met."

Dean did not allow himself to be distracted by the phrasing of that. (The first time we met, rather than the first time Dean went into the shop, as if them meeting was the most important thing that had happened that day.)

"It's Talbot's butler, he's a pain in my well-sculptured butt. He's basically force-feeding me that crap, it's insane."

"That seems like it could be painful, yes."

"I'm serious, he has some kind of weird relationship to it, like I literally never see him not holding it. He _loves_ tea. No, _really_ loves it. Like… tea is to him what cars are to me."

Castiel smiled at him for several long moments, and he found himself smiling back.

"Eyes on the road, Dean."

"Right." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's late. I was watching Masterchef. I won't do it again! (probably.)
> 
> Dodge Challenger: http://sv.tinypic.com/r/21lk5s4/8
> 
> '66 Ford Mustang: http://sv.tinypic.com/r/34sr0jd/8


	5. Did I Just Make a Friend?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean actually makes a friend, Talbot continues being Talbot, and John calls.

**73 DAYS**

Dean had figured it was a one-time thing. A dude helping a dude out, or a caffeine-dispensing GPS that refuses to let you text and drive helping a geographically challenged more-drunk-than-not mechanic out. But when he'd dropped Castiel off at his extremely shitty apartment building with an awkward wave and a "see you later" Castiel had turned to him and slowly said "I enjoyed this, Dean. I would like to go with you the next time you decide to purchase car parts." To which Dean had apparently said "sure" or something because Castiel had smiled and left and Dean had sat confused in his car for a moment trying to figure out if he had just made a friend. 

Sam would be so pleased. 

So when he finished the rough work on the engine and started in one the electrical system – which had been the most damaged, due to the whole being on fire-thing – he took Castiel with him to the coast to visit a used car's salesman who seemed to know what he was talking about. It was a long drive, and Dean talked about his progress with the Impala, about how Eames finally seemed to have forgiven him and started standing around in the background while he worked again, and how that was actually kind of nice because when he mumbled about what he was doing it felt a little less like he was talking to himself, or to an inanimate object. (He didn't say that it was also nice because it stopped him becoming too disgustingly sentimental and crying over a car, that felt like an over-share). Castiel talked about working at the café, about costumers with weird requests and how Meg keeps scaring newcomers off but the regulars have gotten immune to her, about how Gabriel won't stop bringing his candy into the café despite outside food not technically being allowed through the doors. They agreed that Gabriel was a douchesnozzle. (Although Castiel didn't technically use douchesnozzle so much as 'difficult' and 'an acquired taste'. Dean translated that to 'a pain in my worship-worthy behind'). 

They talked about being American and in England.

"I grew up here." Castiel had said, and Dean had stared at him in shock.

"You're shitting me."

Castiel frowned, "I am not shitting you. I lived outside of Brighton for the first fifteen years of my life, until my father's ambition took our family to the States. I am technically both American and English."

Dean had been a little stuck on the image of a fifteen year old Castiel, as sullen and serious as he was today, except short and gangly and with bangs in his eyes, and it kinda did something to his stomach that was really weird but not unpleasant at all. 

"Why did you come back?" Dean had asked and Castiel had been silent for a very long time, long enough that Dean had started to worry and was contemplating apologizing for putting his nose where it doesn't belong.

Then Castiel said: "To have somewhere to go." and Dean just hadn't had an answer to that, so he'd changed the subject. 

They went two more times in the next week or so. Both times, Dean picked up Castiel outside his apartment, they talked, even laughed, they kind of got to know each other a little bit (last name: Novak. Family: large. Favourite colour: green. Favourite food: burgers.) and then Dean dropped him back off at his apartment. In the days between, Dean went to Taste 'Buds, Castiel made him coffee, and they… talked. Dean was smiling a lot more than he was used to. The only downside was that when Castiel was out of his work-clothes, he tended to hide The Ass under a beige trench coat. Dean was not a fan of the trench coat. He was also not a fan of Gabriel. Fucking Gabriel.

Gabriel thought it was really funny to play tricks on Dean. Like hiding his phone in the coffee bean-jar and changing the names of the contact (joke's on him though, Dean only has like five numbers and he knows all of those by heart anyway). Or changing the password on the computer to cheap insults. Or switching his coffee out for tea when he wasn't looking. Dean wondered if Gabriel didn't have better things to do, like, for instance, running his own shop? He also wondered how the hell he managed to sneak so much candy into Dean's jacket pockets because seriously, it was everywhere.

 

* * *

 

Sam had called him late the night after Andover, his voice annoyingly teasing.

"So, Dean," he said, dragging out the words gleefully, "how was your _date_."

"It wasn't a date." Dean said. He was like, 80 percent sure it hadn't been a date. 

"He sat in a car with you, willingly, for several hours. It was a date."

Okay, maybe 60 percent sure.

"Well, you do that all the time!"

"Yes," Sam said, like Dean was five and needed the use of shoes properly explained to him, "but you don't think _I_ have an ass that could launch a thousand ships."

"What– I don't– I never– _how do you know that_?"

Sam laughed, long and loud. "You know, if you get an iPhone, there's this app you can download which stops you from drunk texting, you might benefit from that.

Dean groaned.

"So did you kiss him?"

"I'm gonna hang up now."

"Are you going out again?" 

"I hate you and I'm hanging up now."

" _Have safe se_ –"

 

* * *

 

When Dean went back through his sent messages he did indeed find one that said "my barista has an ass that could launch a thousand ships" except with worse spelling and with more swearwords. He found another interesting thing too. The day before, after Sam's "are you on a date???" Castiel had sent a text simply saying "yes."

On a hunch, Dean scrolled through his contacts and there, plain as day, was Castiel Novak. 

Dean allowed himself to react to that for a couple of minutes, then he went back to work. 

 

* * *

 

That Saturday Talbot cornered him at yet another spectacularly bad-for-you-breakfast, and he was acting super weird. By which Dean meant, of course, strangely normal.

"Morning, Dean." He said and sat down, putting his monocle in his breast-pocket.

"Morning, Jimmy." 

"How are you?"

"I'm… good?"

"Good, I'm glad. And how's the car coming along?"

Dean was immediately suspicious. 

"Fine. I'm working on the electrical wiring at the moment, going to get a new generator sometime in the beginning of next week, I was thinking."

"Good, good," Talbot nodded, "it's according to schedule and everything?"

"… I gue–"

"Great! Than you can come with me to this car show I have to go to, that's great, I'm so glad you took the time out to keep little old me company, you're a good kid." 

"Jimmy–"

"Bye!"

He flounced out of the room, one annoying shoe after another. 

"Why does he do that?" Dean asked Eames, who was refilling Dean's tea.

Eames didn't say anything, but his left eyebrow looked amused.

 

* * *

 

 **Dean:** "talbot is forcing me to spend the day with him, help!"

 

 **Castiel** : "I'll miss you."

 

Dean walked into the doorframe and Talbot laughed at him. 

But whatever, right? It was probably a joke. Except as far as Dean knew, Castiel didn't do jokes. Well then, Taste 'Buds would miss his custom is all. He tried the pie the other day and considered never-ever eating anything else until the day that he died, but then figured he'd be broke pretty soon. And fat. 

Or you know, it was just Gabriel, being a dickhead. After all, he had a history of cellular theft and tasteless humour. And being a dickhead.

That was totally it. 

Talbot, after he stopped laughing, led him to the garage and his beloved 1960 Cadillac, Series 75, which was sleek, shiny, slightly sparkly, polished within an inch of it's life and, apparently, 'called Bela'. 

"She's my best girl." Talbot pronounced proudly as they got in an drove off, "a bit temperamental sometimes, but what's a car without some surprising elements?"

"Functional?" Dean muttered to himself.

If Talbot heard him, he pretended not to. 

The show, as it turned out, was pretty cool. And Talbot, as it turned out, was pretty normal throughout the whole thing. And by normal, Dean meant the actual kind of normal rather than the warped version Talbot seemed to be living by nowadays. He was enthused about the cars much the same as Dean was, and talked more about engines than about Eames, which was impressive. Dean even caught him chewing some tobacco. He almost felt like congratulating him. 

What was really strange about the day was how everyone greeted Talbot. And by everyone, he did mean everyone. At least almost everyone. Left and right people were coming up to shake Talbot's hand, inquire as to his latest fixer-upper, and ask for advice. They not only valued his opinion, but sought it out, and were all very curious about the "American lad" he'd brought with him. Dean found himself repeating his own name so often it stopped sounding like actual words and started sounding like a mantra a buddhist munk might fixate on when he felt like punching someone in the face. 

"Winchester? Not like John Winchester?"

Dean did a double take. 

The man who'd spoken stood next to a mid-fifties Volkswagen. He looked around forty; salt-and-pepper-hair, nicotine-yellowed teeth parted in a surprised grin, and prominent cheekbones – lanky in the way only teenagers should be, like he'd gone through a vicious growth spurt at fifteen and grown old without bothering to fill out. That, and in no way at all familiar.

"Yes, that's my dad."

The man stretched out a hand; "I'm Nolan Allaway, a pleasure."

Dean shook his hand. "Likewise."

"Winchester and Son, correct? I was in the States a couple years ago, completely busted my suspension, had no American money… Your dad really stepped up."

Ah. Well now Dean remembered. 

"Ford Fairmont. I remember. Crappy car, no wonder it broke."

"Dean!" Talbot admonished, but he looked positively gleeful. 

Nolan Allaway looked taken aback, but laughed a little anyway. "Uh, yeah, I guess? Well, after your dad got his hands on it, it ran like on gilded wings."

Dean grunted somewhat confirmingly, trying to ignore Sam's voice in his head not-so-gently prodding at him with 'you fixed that car, Dean.' and 'that was the time when he'd run out of liquor and disappeared for three days, Dean.' and 'he never even looked at that car, Dean.' and 'you had a bruise on your shoulder for a week where that bottle hit you, Dean.'

"Anyway–" Nolan was trailing off, looking so gangly Dean felt like he should be breaking apart at every joint as he shuffled his feet a little uncomfortably. "I should have known, you look just like him."

Sam's voice echoed in his mind – 'You're nothing like him, Dean.' – even as Talbot slapped a hand onto his shoulder and steered him away, the weight of it on him like expectation, disapproval, smoke, and Sammy's hand in his.

 

* * *

 

Dean supposed he might have been quiet on the ride home. Talbot didn't notice, or didn't seem to. He chatted away perfectly happily without any input from Dean, and, well, if he now and again threw the son of his oldest friend a worried look or two, Dean certainly didn't notice. 

When they got back, Talbot left him in the garage, striding off muttering about Eames and a cake to bake. Or a slate to check? Dean wasn't listening. 

He stared at the overflowing mess of the Impala, hands crossed tightly over his chest. For a moment, he just looked. The ghost of a hand still weighed on his shoulder, and Sam's voice was prodding him from somewhere in the back of his mind. For just that moment, the two battled it out in the most subdued war in the history of the world, and then Dean sighed, scratched a hand through his growing stubble, and pulled his phone out of his pocket. 

Before he'd even really made a decision, he was pulling Castiel's number up among his contacts and then listening to the dial tone going one, going twice, going–

"Hello, Dean."

"I've got to go get a generator in Watford, wanna come?"

There was a shuffling sound, and then muffled voices; one very recognisable as Castiel's and then he was back, warm and grovel-y and genuine in Dean's ear. "I'm off my shift in thirty minutes, I'll be waiting outside."

"I'll be there." Dean said and hung up. And, well, if he was smiling as he grabbed a random set of keys off a hook, it was nobody's god damned business. 

 

* * *

 

Castiel looked, predictably, like he'd walked straight off the pages of a male-modeling magazine. A male modeling magazine that happens to specialize in slightly ruffled would-be-accountants. 

"Are you alright, Dean?"

Dean cleared his throat and dragged a hand through his hair. He really needed to cut it at some point. And shave. 

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good. You, uh– your tie is on backwards."

Cas frowned down at himself. "Does it bother you?"

"Uh–" Dean said over the sound of Sam's hysterical imagined laughter, and pulled out of the parking space a little too quickly. "Nope. I'm good."

He really needed to get this weird kink under control before he did something embarrassing, like scale Castiel like a tree. Don't get him wrong, any other time and he would have respectfully hit that a long time ago, but it didn't feel like it would be productive to completely ruin his friendly relationship with the only guy in this whole country he could actually stand to be around under extended time periods. Also, there was no way in hell he'd find all the shit he needed without help. 

"How was your day with Mr. Talbot?"

"Meh. There were pretty cool cars, and he acted kinda normal for once. It was okay. I like this better though."

"Me too."

"What?"

"I like this better than you spending the day with Mr. Talbot. I enjoy your company."

_Are you going to go out again??_

"Me too, man. Do I take a left here?"

"Aren't we going to Watford?" Castiel asked and handed him his coffee. 

"So not left?" Damn, that coffee did not stop being delicious.

"Are we going to Wales?" He asked, brow furrowed in confusion. 

"Uhm." Dean said. "No? I guess just Watford today."

"Okay." Castiel said. "Turn right here."

"That I will." Dean said and turned right. 

"Are you sure you're alright?" 

When Dean glanced over, Castiel was giving him a long look of what could only be described as genuine concern. It did something weird to Dean's head, and to the ghostly weight still hanging over his shoulder. He went to ruffle Castiel's mop up a little more, mostly to see if he could, but halfway through it sort of deteriorated into a pat instead. The corners of Castiel's mouth twitched up into a wide-eyed little smile at the touch. He looked innocent and fragile and still like the most solid thing Dean had ever encountered. 

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. I really am."

"Eyes on the road, Dean."

"Right." Dean said, and removed his hand from Castiel's hair. 

 

* * *

 

Watford was boring, which wasn't a surprise. But Castiel made it wonderful, which at this point shouldn't have been a surprise but still really really was.

Before Castiel, Dean had never really encountered someone who was funny in their own right. He knew a lot of people who were funny because they tried really hard to be, and he knew a lot of people who were funny at other people's expense. He knew a whole _lot_ of people who were just downright not funny at all. 

Castiel was unintentionally funny. 

His remarks – about the weather, about Dean's stories, about that peculiarly fluffed canine, about how Gabriel had scared off three costumers before lunch – continuously toed the line of sarcasm, but always managed to land safely on the side of good-natured confusion. 

Dean still felt bad for laughing. Because they weren't technically _jokes_ , and laughing at someone who was just expressing thoughts seemed like a genuinely shitty thing to do. Dean did not want to be a shitty person to Castiel. But sometimes he was just fucking hilarious. 

And sometimes Dean could swear he looked pleased when Dean got coffee in his nose, like maybe making someone laugh was a good thing even when it wasn't intentional.

So, yeah, Castiel made the day kinda great. And it kept being kinda great until they were heading back, one radiator and several laughs richer, and Dean's phone rang.

"And what did Gabriel say?"

"Your phone's ringing."

"… I don't get it."

"No, Dean. Your phone is ringing."

"Oh. I really gotta change the ringtone or something, could you–" but Castiel was already reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone (and three or seven wrapped toffees).

"John Winchester, is it your father?" 

Dean slammed on the breaks. He twisted the wheel too hard and they lurched back and forth on the road before pulling to a very abrupt stop and the side of the road. He wrangled his phone out of Castiel's hand (not really reflecting on how he actually had to wrangle it because Castiel was suddenly gripping it for dear life) and fumbled for the right button because shit, shit, shit.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit– Dad. Hi. How's– how are you?"

"Dean?" His sounded distracted, but steady, thank god. "I haven't heard from you since you left, are you making any headway over there?"

"I– Yes, sir, I think so." He cleared his throat and tried to sound like he was completely relaxed, "I'm actually on my way back with a new radiator for the car right now."

John's voice came suddenly muffled through the phone, as if he was covering it with his hand, and then he was back again.

"Right. Well, don't get distracted, you have a job to do. Finish it."

"I will, sir." Dean gripped the steering wheel hard with his free hand. "How's the shop?"

Once again, it sounded like John was speaking to someone on the other end, there were background noises; voices, clinking, what sounded like a game. 

"The shop? It's fine. Work hard, Talbot's an old friend, I don't want you to embarrass me."

"I will, si–"

There was a click, and then nothing. 

Dean dropped his phone by the gearshift and stared at the road and the passing cars for a few seconds, swallowing and swallowing and swallowing. Then he peeled his fingers off the steering wheel and turned to Castiel.

"Sorry about tha– are you okay?"

Castiel didn't look okay. He looked really, really tense. One hand was gripping the car door so hard Dean was afraid it would dent, and the other was rhythmically pressing into his thigh. He looked pale and haggard and his lips moved quickly and quietly with unknown words. 

Dean, on impulse, reached out and gripped Castiel's shoulder. He flinched, but didn't shrug him off, just kept murmuring to himself.

"Castiel, hey, Cas! What's wrong, man?"

Castiel let go of his thigh and made a grab for Dean's arm instead. 

Dean surprised himself with how willingly he surrendered. Cas gripped his forearm the same as he'd gripped his own thigh, squeezing and letting go with a few seconds interval, breathing deeply through his nose.

"Cas? Cas, you gotta talk to me, are you okay? What happened?" Worry was stinging in his throat. Castiel was always so composed, so controlled. Castiel was steady (and small and fragile) and _steady_. Right now the only steady thing was Cas' controlled breathing, but that still sounded forced, too deep, as if he was _making_ himself breathe normally.

"Cas?"

Slowly, he relaxed. 

It happened in stages. First, he let go of the door. Secondly, his lips stopped moving and his breathing slowed down. Thirdly, his face relaxed back into it's solemn (neutral) expression and his shoulders relaxed. Fourthly, he… did not let go of Dean's arm.

"You've never called me that before." He said, quietly.

"Wha?" Dean tried.

Cas looked up at him, and he was back again. Solid, blue eyes holding Dean's like he was something absolutely unique. 

"You've never called me Cas before. I don't think anyone has."

"Is– uh. Is that alright?"

"I like it." He smiled.

"Well then." Dean grinned a little, but it fell quickly. 

There was silence for a few moments, and the atmosphere of the car slowly changed, until nothing of the electric worry hung in the air anymore, until Castiel looked himself and Dean felt almost himself and there was no real sign of Cas'… freakout? panic? reaction? left but for the hand still gripping Dean's arm. Cars kept streaking past them, paying them very little mind.

"So that was your father." Cas said finally. 

Dean scratched at his chin. (It was becoming a ticks, really, he should have shaved two days ago.)

"Yeah. I guess." He said. "I mean yes. That was my dad."

Castiel frowned and cocked his head slightly and Dean wanted to do something to him but he had no idea what. (Spoiler alert: he did know, and it was not child friendly). "He does not seem a very gentle man."

Dean scoffed. "Yeah, no. I guess not." Castiel said nothing in response. "He's busy. With the shop." Castiel still said nothing, just looked at him, like he could wait forever and be satisfied with whatever words came out of Dean's mouth. It was unnerving (and really really nice). "Although if you ask Sam he doesn't really _do_ anything in the shop anymore." Another long pause. "That's not true, he works really hard. I mean, yeah, sure, I do most of the actual heavy lifting and shit. And sometimes I sit down and do the whole tax-thing and the bills and stuff, but it's his shop, you know? It would be nothing without him."

Castiel nodded, but somehow not in agreement. Just acknowledgment. 

"It's not easy for him." Dean protested, but he wasn't sure against what exactly. Maybe against Cas. Maybe against Sam's voice in his head. Maybe against himself. "He got stuck with two little kids when mom died, he had to make money, he didn't have time to take us to the fucking park or, or Disney land or whatever."

Cas' hand held steady onto his forearm, and his gaze held steady onto Dean's face. Dean, however, felt really not steady, and was trying not to meet his gaze too much. 

"Wasn't easy." He muttered.

"What was your mother's name?" Cas asked.

"… Mary. She– uh. Sam never knew her."

"I'm sorry." Cas said, and it actually, honestly sounded like he fucking meant it.

Dean took a deep breath. Eyes trained on the road signs they'd stopped right in front of and mind held firmly away from any unnecessary memory-montage. He didn't need that shit right now.

"Do you want to go to London?" Dean asked.

"Sure. Do you want some more coffee?"

"You have more?" 

"I have a second thermos in my bag." Castiel said, let go of Dean's arm, and started rummaging for it.

"Dude, yes." Dean said, and pulled back up on the road. He turned left towards London, because why the fuck not, and breathed in the holy scent of still warm coffee as Cas refilled their mugs. 

Cas. 

It sounded nice in his head. Still like Castiel but different enough that it felt private. That it felt like a version of Castiel. Dean's version. With cars and coffee and little solemn smiles. Cas. It sounded really, really nice.

"What would it be without you?" Cas asked.

"What?"

"The shop. What would it be without you?"

Dean didn't have an answer for that, so he didn't say anything. Cas turned on the radio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> VISUAL AIDS:
> 
> Bela: http://sv.tinypic.com/r/x8wew/8
> 
> Also that thing I said about uploading once a week apparently doesn't apply when I suddenly get a job. Whoops.


	6. How Do We Forgive Our Fathers?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is opening up, and it's not half as weird as it should have been.

**73 DAYS**

"Sam thinks I'm an idiot." Dean said into his mug. It was too hot to be drinking coffee. The steam rising from the mug was clinging to his chin and cheek where he was leaning too close, forming a thin cover of condensation of his already overheated skin. Sweat was beading along his fringe and at the back of his neck, but his hands were shaking as if he were cold. "Always telling me to get another job. Something with better hours, better money. Or go back to school. Which, yeah, unlikely. When I told him I was coming here, and I admit that calling from the airport was a bit of a dick move, he kept going on about 'taking my chance', and 'going for it', and 'getting out from under him'." Dean scoffed, chancing a glance at Cas.  
  
He was staring intently at the painting of the London skyline, where black smoke billowed up from between the streets as steam was billowing up from their cups. The trenchcoat was hanging over his arm, and he'd rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. Dean followed the long lines of sinewy muscles with his eyes, where they smoothed over into thin wrists, and strong hands, rasped knuckles, rough fingers, bitten nails.  
  
Cas looked collected, unaffected, but sweat was beading at his collar, and he was definitely listening.  
  
"It's not about the money, or the hours." Dean continued, not entirely sure why. Maybe because in his careful inattention, it seemed that Cas was waiting for him to. "Or– I don't know. I like it. I like working on cars, and I'm great at it. It's–" Dean cut off, not knowing was the hell he was planning to say.  
  
"Loyalty." Cas said.  
  
"What?"  
  
Cas turned to him. "It's about loyalty. I understand loyalty."  
  
They stood silent as a group of women passed them. Then Dean said;  
  
"Are you loyal?"  
  
And Cas' face twisted into smile that was on the wrong side of pleased. It made Dean sad to look at.  
  
"I don't know."  
  
He put his hand of Dean's back, and led them further down the road, Hyde Park green and thriving on their right, and the hard concrete of London streets on their left.

  


\--

They had driven with the radio on almost all the way to London. Dean had considered bringing it up. He considered asking Cas what exactly had happened to him, when John called. The words seemed stuck in his throat though. Like there was a barrier, a line Dean couldn’t cross, expressing quite clearly what was and was not okay to talk about.  
  
Even though he couldn’t believe it had only been three weeks since he’d burst into Taste ’Buds and loudly (and perhaps just a tad rudely) demanded American coffee, and subsequently met Castiel (asstiel) Novak, it was still a kinda short time to start messing around with the important shit. There were a lot of things Dean didn’t talk to anyone about, not even Sam, and even some things he didn’t talk to Sam about _after_ Sam had needled him and guilted him about it. Sam was never afraid to share. In fact, he did so often and in abundance. Something Dean blamed Jess for. She was way too good for his brother. People just weren’t supposed to be that honest with themselves. It couldn’t possibly end well for anyone.  
  
If there was any way to make sure to get your heart broken, it was that kind of openness.  
  
i >And if there was any way to make sure you lived a lonely life, it was that kind of reasoning.  
  
Dean had shaken Sam’s voice out of his head.  
  
People’s business was their own business, and that was that. If Cas wanted to tell him, he was damn well free to. Dean had decided not to push.  
  
They had gotten closer to London, were just entering the city limits when Cas told him to park the car in a random parking lot in a suburb that looked like it was filled with teenages with itchy fingers. Dean had argued. Profusely. He might not have been driving the Impala but this was a _nice car_. A Nice Car, even. He wasn’t abandoning it miles from where they were actually _going_ , which was _London_ , not… whatever this place was.  
  
”Northolt.”  
  
”What?”  
  
”We’re in Northolt.”  
  
”Dude, don’t do that you sound so British.”  
  
”I am British.”  
  
”You sound like Talbot. Next thing I know you’ll be saying things like ’spiffing’.”  
  
”Dean. Do me a favour and never allow me to hear that word pass your lips again.”  
  
”’Govna. Cheerio. Mate.”  
  
 ”That sounded almost Australian.”  
  
”I’m not parking the car here.”  
  
He’d parked the car there. When they got into London, he was glad he did. Apparently ’not very many places to park’ actually _means_ ’there are three parking lots available in this city and two of them are handicap parkings. Who would have known.  
  
Before London though, they spent half an hour ’on the tube’. Which Dean was never, ever going to tell Sam about. Mostly because Sam would laugh. A lot.  
Sam had gotten it into his head that Dean was, what had he said… ’high maintenance’. Dean, of course, thought this was absolutely ridiculous. He drove nice cars because he happened to have many nice cars available to him. And okay, he had a memory foam mattress, and Sam had laughed about that, but it was proven good for you, and he was looking out for his health thank you very much. He was not ”high maintenance”. He just didn’t see the point of being pressed into a moving train with about five billion other people who smelled and chewed gum loudly and kept bumping into him.  
  
Although. With the train cart as filled as it was, he did spend most of the ride sort of pressed up against Castiel’s back. It was. You know. Not bad.

 

**Sam:** ”Hey! how’s the Impala??”

**Dean:** ”better, how’s Jess?”

**Sam:** ”She’s awesome! We’re taking foxtrot lessons!!”

**Dean:** ”course you are.”

**Sam:** ”you working now?”

**Dean:** ”no, in London.”

**Sam:** ”??”

**Dean:** ”can’t talk now, with Cas.”

**Sam:** ”??????”

**Sam:** ”Dean??”

**Sam:** ”I’m calling you after foxtrot!!”

 

\--

”Are you looking for a blue door?” Castiel asked, as they trudged through Notting Hill, and Dean immediately stopped craning his neck. He did not flush. (He flushed).  
  
”I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His assumed air of nonchalance was not so nonchalant, but hopefully Cas wouldn’t notice. When Dean checked, Cas was smiling a little. He was still carrying his trenchcoat over his right arm, and Dean had shrugged off his jacket too and wore it over his left one and sometimes, when someone passed them on the sidewalk or one of them had to sidestep a trashcan, their elbows pressed together.  
  
”Tell me about your family.” Dean said.  
  
”Why?” Cas queried. Because Cas was the kind of person who didn’t ask, he _queried_ , and got away with it too, the bastard.  
  
”Because–” he waved his hand a little through the air, and their elbows brushed again, ”–I don’t know, I just want to know. I want you to tell me.”  
  
When Dean looked up from staring at the ground, Cas was several feet behind him.  
  
Just like Eames had a million and one ways of sighing, as Dean learned very quickly, Castiel had a million and one stares. He didn’t assume to understand them. Cas was still hard to read. He reminded Dean of when he and Sam used to sneak out to go fishing as kids, when the fish swam quickly in murky waters, elusive and hard to make out, making you want to lean closer even though you knew it wouldn’t help. Until they suddenly, unapologetically, burst through the surface into the sunlight, bright, clear, and gone just as quickly.  
  
If Dean had to guess, that particular stare meant something along the lines of ’you are a peculiar being, Dean Winchester. Scientists should study you.’  
  
Dean’s hand twitched towards him, but he snatched it back and tried to pass it off as wiping the sweat from his forehead.  
  
”If... that’s okay.” He added, too long after.  
  
Castiel’s eyes softened. He walked up to Dean and, shifting his coat to the other arm, led them forwards again with a hand on the small of his back. It burned hot through Dean’s shirt when it lingered there, and the heat was making it difficult to breathe properly. When it fell away, their shoulders kept brushing together.  
  
”Gabriel is my brother.” Castiel started.  
  
”Really?” Dean asked, and then wanted to hit himself for interrupting.  
  
”Yes.”  
  
”You don’t look alike at all.”  
  
Castiel seemed to consider this. ”No, I suppose we don’t. We are similar in very few ways–"  
  
"Yeah, he's an ass." Dean muttered.  
  
"Gabriel picked me up from the streets when I thought I had nothing."  
  
Well shit.  
  
”Shit. Sorry, I didn’t mean–”  
  
”Yes, you did.” Cas said. But he was smiling. ”I have two more brothers, and a sister. They’re all in America with my father. I don’t speak to them. My mother, like yours, died when I was very young.”  
  
”Why don’t you talk to them?”  
  
Cas frowned thoughtfully. ”Can we sit?”  
  
”What?”  
  
He gestured to a café a little ways down the street. Dean looked down into his nearly empty coffee-mug, swirled the mush at the bottom around a little, then he shrugged.  
  
”Sure.”

-

They were a bit into sipping their cups of disappointing coffee, sitting in the corner of the outdoor seating area on hard plastic chairs on either side of an alarmingly wobbly spindle-legged table, before Cas continued. The sun was inching it’s way down the sky, throwing long shadows around them, but still managing to glare it’s heat unforgivingly down on them. They leaned close to the wall of the café, where a bare few inches of shade could be found. It didn’t help much.  
  
”Gabriel is almost ten years older than me.” He began, looking straight at Dean in a complete contrast to when Dean talked about his family. As if Dean he realised needed space around him to share, needed a physical distance to imitate the emotional distance he was, word by word, closing, while Cas himself needed to hang on tightly to the other side before he could begin to imagine building a bridge to lead him there.  
  
Or, you know. He just wanted to make sure Dean was listening. One of those two.  
  
”We weren’t close growing up, the age difference too vast to try to bridge, but I think he always liked me. He never particularly liked the others, I think. Always in conflict with our father and, when he was absent, our brothers. Michael and Raphael–”  
  
” _Raphael_? What, like the turtle?” Dean felt like literally taking his shoe off his foot and shoving it in his mouth. He could almost feel the heavy, heavy disapproval Sam would be emitting if he’d been here, almost _hear_ the ’Dean, for _crying out loud_ the man is _sharing_ don’t _compare his relatives to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles_ oh my god I cannot believe I let you out of the house.’  
  
Cas frowned at him. He didn’t look like he was terribly offended, but he also didn’t look like he had the slightest clue what Dean was talking about. That was Dean’s favourite look on him.  
  
”Never mind.” Dean added into his cup of disappointment.  
  
Cas paused for a moment longer, and then picked up right where he left off.  
  
”Michael and Raphael stepped into his shoes and acted in his shadow. They were the sons Father wanted. Strong, competent, proud… unquestioningly loyal.” He traced the line of shadow that fell across the bricks. ”I always wondered at how someone’s influence could weigh so heavily, even in absence. How someone could be standing over your shoulder from thousands of miles away.  
  
”He was absent much of the time, but he never left. He lived in Michael and Raphael. They passed on his words, his teachings, his punishments.”  
  
Dean rubbed his shoulder, as if he could rub away the ghost of a heavy hand.  
  
”Gabriel left when he was fifteen. I don’t remember much of him, I was very young, but what I do remember follow the same pattern. Their arguments all regarded the same subject. Gabriel simply refused to follow the rules set up for him. He stomped his own path from the moment he was old enough to walk, and nothing my father said could change that.” Cas paused, his fingers skidding over the surface of the cup. ”I didn’t see him again until two years ago. He sent me letters, postcards from all over the world– when I turned sixteen he sent vouchers to strip-clubs in the area.”  
  
Dean snorted into his cup. ”And now he owns a candy-shop for kids, lovely.”  
  
”He also sent me sweets.” Cas nodded seriously.  
  
”Where did he go?”  
  
”Everywhere. He flew around the world, saw everything worth seeing, then, when I replied to one of his letters, informing him of our move to America, he came back here.” Cas’ eyes left him for a moment to flicker around the street. ”Stayed with our aunt and uncle, and our cousin, Balthazar. They still live here.”  
  
”I keep forgetting you’re British.” Dean shook his head.  
  
”I thought he stopped sending letters when I turned eighteen. I know now that my father was intercepting them. He believed Gabriel to be a bad influence.”  
  
”What a dick-move.” Cas may be able to not comment on every single thing Dean told him, but Dean was not that strong.  
  
Cas was silent for a long moment.  
  
”He was right.”  
  
To that, Dean said nothing.  
  
”I am not what I was supposed to be.”  
  
Dean said nothing to that either, the words suddenly felt useless. Not being what you were supposed to become. He knew that intimately. He tried, every day, to be better than he was. It seemed like someone was fighting him every single step of the way. Sometimes it was Sam (quite often it was Sam), sometimes it was Dean himself. Sometimes it even felt like John did everything he could to test him. As if he would get more satisfaction from Dean failing than from Dean becoming who he was supposed to become.  
  
No, that wasn’t right.  
  
”That’s why I don’t speak to my siblings, or my father. I failed them. Failed him. Mostly him. While Gabriel refused to follow his path, derived from it knowingly, willingly, with much enthusiasm. I simply was not able to.”  
  
Dean put down his disappointing coffee. It was nothing like what Cas could make anyway. He wrecked his brain for anything to say that wasn’t ’that’s rough, buddy’ because he might actually go to hell for that.  
  
”What was that, in the car, when my dad called?” he said instead.  
  
Cas smiled, and no one had the right to look so sad while smiling. ”A bad memory.” He answered.  
  
”Hi!” A new voice said.  
  
Dean startled so hard he knocked his knees on the underside of the table, and the spindly legs jostled dangerously, coffee splashing over the edges of the mugs and the ceramic clanging against the glass.  
  
”Fu–”  
  
”Dean.” Cas warned.  
  
A small boy was standing by his chair, grinning with at least three fewer teeth than he should have appropriately had.  
  
”Hey there kid,” Dean smiled at him, ”are you lost?”  
  
”Nope!” The kid grinned, bouncing slightly off the balls of his feet. ”I’m with my dad! I drew a picture of you!”  
  
He thrust his arms in Dean’s general direction and, sure enough, there was a page obviously ripped out of a coloring book, where he’d etched two stick-figures sitting awkwardly on chairs, with smiles that reached all the way up their faces to their eyebrows. He’d drawn Dean in green and Cas in blue. At least, Dean was assuming that the one with the fierce eyebrow-game was Cas.  
  
Their conversation also appeared to be starring either a very, very large cat or possibly a velociraptor.  
  
”Wow, kid!” Dean said and took the picture, ”this is an awesome picture, keep drawing like that and you’ll knock the socks off Picasso.”  
  
The kid gazed up at him. ”Do you think so?”  
  
”Heck yeah!”  
  
”Do you want some lego’s?” He said next.  
  
”You have legos?” Cas asked, eyeing the kid.  
  
”Nope!” He seemed delighted by this fact. ”But you looked sad, and my dad says if someone looks sad, you should cheer them up with nice things, and there is _nothing_ nicer than legos!”  
  
Castiel looked to Dean in complete bewilderment.  
  
Dean tried not to laugh. ”You know, kid, you’re absolutely right, legos rock.”  
  
”Yeah!” the kid agreed enthusiastically.  
  
”But you know what rocks even more?”  
  
”What?” He asked, looking doubtful.  
  
”Your parents knowing where you are.”  
  
The kid considered that.  
  
”And also Zeppelin.”  
  
”What’s a Zepline?”  
  
”Ask your dad to look it up, is that him there?”  
  
There was a man with the same sand coloured hair moving quickly towards them, worry and relief somehow simultaneously on his face.  
  
”Peter!” he called, ”don’t run off like that you little monster, you got me real worried.” He swooped down and lifted Peter up, to delighted giggles. ”Sorry gents, he's a quick little bugger. Hope we didn’t interrupt anythin’?”  
  
”Not at all," Dean said, ”great kid.”  
  
”Yeah, he is at that. Did he offer you legos?”  
  
Dean coughed and hid a smile, ”uh, yeah.”  
  
”Thought so. Well, if you gents’ll excuse us, I have some ice cream to withhold.”  
  
” _Noooo!_ ” Peter cried.  
  
The father held him up by the armpits so they were face to face. ”No? But then how will you learn not to run off when your dad’s trying to instagram some squirrels?”  
  
Charlie considered this for a moment. ”You can withhold broccoli.”  
  
The father laughed loudly. ”Good one kid. Thanks chaps, we’ll be on our way, you ’ave a nice day now.”  
  
They walked off with the sound of delighted laughter trailing off into the murmur of the city, leaving Dean holding a slightly rumpled A4 of first time someone had drawn him since Sam was little and thought his big brother was the best thing in the entire world.  
  
Dean missed being handed drawings. He hadn’t realised it until now, but he did. It had always been one of the best parts of his day, when Sam proudly and shyly thrust his little piece of art in Dean’s direction.  
  
Sam had loved drawing. Had done it all his life, on every surface he could reach, until Dean had felt sorry for him and nicked him some paper from the corner store. And when he’d used those up, notebooks upon notebooks and, on his fifth birthday, Dean bought him a real colouring book. Sam had been so happy.  
  
For a while, his drawings had been of the three of them. Sam, Dean, and John. Awkwardly stick-legged and with as big smiles as Dean and Cas had in this picture. Smiles that could not physically fit on their faces, so they went outside the lines a little. Like the happiness was leaking out. And then John hadn’t been in a few pictures, because he hadn’t been there at the park or the zoo or when Dean dropped Sam off at school. And then he’d stopped appearing all together. Dean had stood alone on his awkward stick-legs, with his overflowing smile, holding his little brother’s hand, being his little brother’s whole wide world. Because John hadn’t been there.  
  
Cas stared after Peter and his dad, a whole new sort of frown on his face.  
  
"How do we forgive our fathers?” He murmured.  
  
Dean didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he was supposed to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... There was a Masterchef marathon on TV?
> 
> I don't know, this is ridiculous, it took three effing months to spit out this chapter, and it's still a sort of weird, in-between chapter that only includes half of what I was planning to include in it. But. Yeah. I am working on this for NaNo this year though! So there WILL be more! I have a plan. I will execute this plan. There shall even be actual kissing at some point.
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking with me!


	7. Wales Should be Prohibited (the country, not the animal)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are some revelations. And some secrets.

**65 DAYS**

It felt weird to drive through England without Cas. Dean didn't really want to either, as was becoming apparent. Though, Cas was working, couldn't get out of his shift, which Dean had somehow completely stopped considering might happen sooner or later. (Apparently Meg's patience with him had run out. Or maybe she’d started asking for too much. Like his eyeballs. Or a map to the magical kingdom of Eldorado.)

Dean would have waited until tomorrow. If this dealer had been free any other day this _month_ than today, he would have waited _so hard_ until Cas had been able to come with. (And he doesn't really want to think about how, just a month ago, he wouldn't have put off getting his hands on his Impala for anything that wasn't Sam.)

The Impala.

She was beautiful. Not in the way she used to be. Not with polish, shine, and power. Not with roaring engine, spinning wheels, and miles running to dust underneath her. Rather with the beauty Dean saw in engine grease and oil and gears that didn't quite fit together just yet but were getting there.

And she was getting there.

He pushed out dents and every time it felt like poking the parts of him that ached most, parts he hadn't thought about touching for many years, until they felt raw and bleeding. She was getting there, she was building up. He was breaking himself down in the process.

He scrubbed a hand over his eyes, and then stopped and looked at the road again.

Cas was stuck at work. He never had time to think about shit like this when Cas was in the car. He was too busy keeping up. Too busy laughing, too busy listening, too busy wondering, too busy smiling.

Fuck, it was a nice day. In place of thick, rain-heavy clouds and drizzle, the sky was azure blue and annoyingly chirpy.

He really wished Cas was here.

This was pathetic. He was being pathetic. He needed someone to tell him how pathetic he was being.

He called Sam.

”Hi, Dean, what’s up?”

”Sam, do your thing.”

”… My thing?”

”You know,” he waved his free hand around for a bit, then grabbed the wheel again. ”That thing you do where you sigh, judge my life choices and make sure I know I’m being pathetic. That thing.”

There was silence on the line for a few moments.

”What have you done this time, Dean?” Sam sighed.

”There you go! Exactly like that!”

”Dean.”

Dean pulled to the side of the road and shut the engine off.

”I don’t know what to do, Sam. I really like him.”

”Who, Castiel?”

”No. Eames. We’re eloping tomorrow– jeez, Sam, what do you think?”

”Okay, so you made a friend, what’s the problem?”

Dean fiddled a little with the leather on the gearstick.

”Dean?” Sam sounded suspicious now. ”Oh god, did you sleep with him? I was just messing with you about the safe sex-thing, I didn’t actually mean that–”

”What? _No_! Sam. No.”

”You _didn’t_ sleep with him?” Sam asked, alarmed.'

”No? You’re giving me whiplash, I thought that was a good thing.”

”Dean. What you don’t know about yourself, that I know about yourself, is that there are two ways you approach people you like. Either you meet them, think they have – what was is – ’an ass that could launch a thousand ships’ and have very dirty, possibly illegal sex with them, which, by the way, I hate that I know about you, or you don’t have sex with them, and that’s how you get friends. Like Jo. And Charlie. And Bobby.”

”Ew, Sam, Bobby?”

”Yes. Bobby.”

“Bobby's old, Charlie’s gay, and honestly, I think Jo only likes me for my taste in gin.”

“Yes. And that’s why they still speak to you.”

“So you’re saying I shouldn’t sleep with Cas.”

Sam’s sigh crackled the receiver.

“I think…” He started slowly, “that you haven’t spoken about anyone this much since, well, ever.”

“Okay.” Dean waits. Sam doesn’t say anything else. “And what should I do with that information?”

“I really think you should handle your own love life, if I get too involved–“

“ _Woah_ , who said anything about love?”

As he was saying it, he realised that might be a tad defensive.

“Wow, you’re getting really defensive–“ dammit. “–you really do like him.”

Dean rested his head on the steering wheel.

“You know, I can’t believe I’m calling you about this. Don’t you have any girl problems to bug me about like when you were 15? Any proms coming up?”

There was a short pause.

“Actually, I might ask Jess to marry me.”

Dean whipped his head up, “What? Really? What? I mean, what? Really?”

Sam laughed, “Yes, Dean. We’ve been talking about it on and off for the last year. You know, getting married, buying a bigger house… kids.”

“Kids?” Blood rushed through Dean’s ears, making his voice sound weird.

“I’ve always wanted a real– I mean, I’ve always wanted a big family.”

“You’ve always wanted a real family.”

Sam’s sigh crackled over the phone, “Dean, you know that’s not what I meant, you know you’ve always been the most important person in the world to me–“

“It’s okay, Sammy, really. I know what you meant. I’m real happy for you, Jess is great. Way out of your league, honestly, but you’re going to be great together.”

He wanted to say something about being best man at the wedding. Any other day, he wouldn’t have even considered the possibility that he might not be. But today, sitting by the side of a road on the other side of the world, his brother in his ear talking about getting a _real family_ , finally… the words set up camp on the inside of his cheek.

“So,” he said instead, “how are you going to ask?”

 

* * *

 

**64 DAYS**

“Dean-bean!” Talbot yelled and Dean flinched so violently his wrench went straight across the room, bounced off the wall, and landed in a pile of tires. “Bullseye!” Talbot threw his arms into the air. His monocle fell off his face.

Dean lowered the music, “Goddammit, Jimmy, you scared the– the bejesus out of me!”

“Aw, little old me? You flatterer you, but enough about me I got you a gift.”

Over a month living inside Talbot’s mansion had not helped him get used to any of it. Some of it he would frankly like to get used to, (see: jacuzzi, bed, _cars_ ) and some of it he would be glad to never look twice at again (see: tea). He still got lost trying to find anything other than the kitchen, his bedroom, and the booze jungle. The other day, he'd been looking for a bathroom on the first floor and opened a door into a walk in closet the size of his Kansas house filled with nothing but, disturbingly enough, dresses, heels and wigs. He had _not_ asked Talbot about it and was not planning too. Blissful ignorance and plausible deniability were like sweet nothings to his ears.  
”Is it the gift of a peaceful working environment? Cause that’s something you’ve been real bad at giving me so far.”

Talbot crossed his arms and tutted. Dean went to pick up his wrench. To be fair, it was kind of a bullseye.

”Such an attitude. You were a lot more fun to hang with as a kid, Dean.”

”You’ve said that before,” Dean complained, running a hand over the surface of the Impala. There were no dents anymore. Dean had slowly and painstakingly taken care of every single one, until she was smooth, albeit ragged and dirty. ”I was a terror as a kid, I’ll have you know.”

”No you weren’t.”

Dean looked up. Talbot was sounding strangely serious again, and was gazing at him almost solemnly. Dean didn’t know what to do about that.

”You know I learned to drive in this car.” He said instead. He leaned back under the hood and let his hands go back to work, his mind on a parking lot in Wyoming and his father smiling, and then swearing. ”Almost crashed her, dad lost his shit. Didn’t though.” He paused, thumbing a loose screw. ”I’m just saying, fifteen year old me managed not to put a scratch on her first time behind the wheel, tell me again how you mangled her and set her on fire?”

Talbot laughed. ”Insolence, that’s what this is, child! Heresay, you might say. To stand here and take this abuse–”

Dean smiled in spite of himself. ”Yeah, yeah, yeah. You said something about a gift?”

Talbot seemed to remember himself. ”Yes, of course! Silly me! Come, come, I have greatness to show you.” He rubbed his hands together like he was the grinch.

”But I–” Dean started and gestured at the Impala. He was actually _getting somewhere_ here.

”No buts! No asses, no boobs. Just gift giving.” Talbot grabbed his collar and started dragging him along. Dean dropped his wrench. And sighed heavily.

”Oh.” He said, a couple of minutes later, standing in the kitchen with Talbot beside him, literally jumping with glee.

”Isn’t it _beautiful_?” He sighed, stroking the shiny metal of the espresso machine. ”You have no idea what I had to do to get Eames to agree to this. _No. Idea_. Don’t tell him this but you have a point about the tea, coffee is… _sometimes_ … to be preferred.”

”You know, I really thought Eames worked for you? He seems kinda hard to deal with, can’t you just fire him?”

Talbot laughed. Loudly. For a long time. Then he said, ”please” with a dismissive gesture.

Fair enough.

”Should we make some coffee then? We can sit, we can chat!” Talbot grinned widely.

”You know I have a lot of work to do maybe I should just get back to it–” Dean started.

”Nonsense! It’s coffee, I know you like coffee. Sit down with me, have some.”

So Talbot made them coffee, and they sat in the kitchen together. Talbot talked about golfing, and about Eames sending him passive aggressive texts from the store where he bought the machine. Dean was actually surprised Eames even had a phone, at least one that wasn’t hanging off a wall and that you answered by saying ’ohoy’. He wasn’t surprised that Eames was a passive aggressive texter. That seemed about right. Dean talked about Sam. But he said nothing about their latest phone call. Didn’t say a word about Sam getting married. He didn’t know why. The words were there, but like before, they were stuck on the inside of his cheek. Like a sore.

”You have been spending a lot of time out in the cars, aren’t they a dream to drive?” Talbot asked him gleefully.

”They could use some maintenance.” Dean smirked. Talbot put a hand to his heart in mock horror. ”But yeah, they’re pretty sweet. I’m seeing a lot of England going around looking for spare parts like this.” He gave Talbot a pointed look. Talbot pretended not to notice.

”Is that right? Why is it then I see you returning here quite often without any more parts, hm?” He wiggled his eyebrows.

Dean stared into his tiny tiny espresso cup. ”I’ve been in Leatherhead some.”

”Is that so?”

”Yeah… There’s a nice coffee shop there.”

”I see.”

The espresso was decent.

 

* * *

 

**62 DAYS**

Dean had more than once in his life denied being lost when he actually was lost. Right now… he was not denying it. He was very, very lost. Looking around, he may have had a stroke. You could lose mental faculties when having a stroke right? Like the ability to read English?

He looked down at his phone. He really, really did not want to call Talbot about this. But he’d driven alone. It was Wednesday. Cas didn’t work on Wednesdays, didn't come along on roadtrips either. Dean hadn’t yet seen Cas on a Wednesday. It was the empty Cas-less hole in the middle of the week that Dean had come to accept. Dean had never called Cas on a Wednesday. He’d picked up the new exhaust manifold from Ludlow but he must have taken a wrong turn somewhere and… who else was he going to call?

The dial tones sounded strangely accusing.

”Hello, Dean.”

It took a couple of seconds for Dean to be able to speak. Cas sounded… Cas sounded so… raw.

”Dean?”

”Hey! Cas. Hey, I’m real sorry, am I bothering you?”

”No, of course not.”

”Are… you okay?”

Silence, and then.

”I’m glad you called, Dean.” someone said something in the background and Cas shushed them.

”Was that Gabriel?” Dean asked.

”Yes, he’s being very irritating.” He said, sounding more like himself.

Dean smiled.

”Was there anything on your mind?” Cas asked.

”Uhm.” Dean said, looking around again. ”I’m… lost? Like, insanely lost. Might have accidentally driven into like Middle Earth or something.”

”You’re lost in Middle Earth.” And there he was; honest, solid, genuine, confused Cas.

”Or France, maybe? Could I be in France?”

Someone was laughing in the background. _Gabriel_ was laughing in the background.

”Did you drive through a tunnel?” Cas asked.

”What, no!”

”Then you’re not in France.”

Gabriel said something Dean couldn't make out. It was probably rude.

”Well I’m not in England!”

”Are there any roadsigns?”

”There’s nothing _but_ roadsigns!” Dean gestured wildly with his free arm.

”Can you read one to me?”

”They are complete gibberish.”

”You’re in Wales.”

”Huh.”

Gabriel was laughing very loudly.

”Okay, I’m in Wales.” Dean said. That made more sense than Middle Earth honestly. ”I’m not liking it so far, how do I get out?”

There was rustling and voices on the other side of the line and Cas saying ”one moment, please.” to someone who seemed to be insisting he ’come with them’.

”You’re busy,” Dean said, ”Nevermind, I’ll just figure it out. I’ll stop and ask, people do that right? Sorry to bother you.”

Then Cas was back, ”No, Dean, you’re not bothering me, I–, I’m really glad you called but I can’t… I have to go but please, don’t hang up, Gabriel will help you.”

Dean groaned in despair and fell back against the side of the car. ”Gabriel? I’d rather be lost in Wales, honestly.”

He could just about hear Cas smiling.

”He will help you, I will see you tomorrow.” Then he was gone and Gabriel was laughing in his ear.

”Please tell me you’re standing in a field of sheep right now, cause that’s the picture my head has painted and I need it to be realised. Is there sheep-droppings on your jeans? Please tell me it’s raining and you’ve somehow lost your shoes. Are you _tampin’, fumin’, ragin’_? Make this dream come true for me.”

Dean hung up.

Then he called back because even Gabriel was better than Wales.

  
**Dean:** wales should be prohibited

 **Dean:** the country not the animal

 **Sam:** @dean why are you like this

 **Sam:** Can’t talk now Jess and I are looking at rings (!!!!)

 

* * *

 

In his defense, he was at least back in England.

”Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck it all to goddamn fucking hell.” He slammed the car door shut and kicked violently at the sign post. ”I’m never getting back! I’m gonna die here, I’m gonna fucking die in the English countryside and no one will be able to find my body because it’s impossible to _fucking find anything in this godforsaken country_.”

He stood staring out at the meaningless fields and golf courts and tried to calm down for a bit. He considered texting Sam but decided not to. Sam had other shit to deal with right now. Like his future.

He texted Cas instead.

 

 **Dean:** if i die here, remember me as i was

 **Dean:** also cremate me and scatter my ashes all over england cause thats a proper metaphor for hoW LOST I AM RIGHT NOW

 **Dean:** dont worry im callingg gabriel

 

Gabriel showed up in a taxi half an hour later, when Dean was sitting on the hood of the car playing Snake on his phone, wishing he had some alcohol, or at the very least some coffee. Some of Cas’ coffee.

”How did you even find me?” Dean asked over the sound of Gabriel’s laughter. ”I gave you no directions.”

Gabriel wiped the tears from his eyes and candy wrappers fell out of his sleeve.

”I tracked the GPS on your phone.”

Dean looked down at his phone. It didn’t even have a color display.

”My phone doesn’t have GPS.”

”Please.” Gabriel said and waved his hand dismissively, which made him look eerily like Talbot. ”Cas made me make this for you, he says hi.” He handed Dean a travel mug. A warm, beautiful, coffee-smelling thermos. It wasn’t quite like Cas made it, it was missing something, but it was still coffee, so Dean finished it in three long gulps, and had no regrets.

Gabriel got into the passenger seat and Dean resigned himself to picking candy wrappers out of the car for a week.

”So.” Gabriel started after directing Dean onto a road that seemed at least vaguely familiar to him. Dean didn't like the sound of that ’so’. He did not like it at all. He might have put his head on the steering wheel in distress, or maybe voluntarily crashed the car to avoid hearing what was coming next but… well… it was a ’69 Camaro.

”What exactly are your intentions with my brother?”

The Camaro swerved dangerously on the road. ”What! I– what are you even– there are no intention– nothing! I have no intentions. What the hell, Gabriel!”

Gabriel snorted, ”Do you think I’m stupid, kiddo?” Dean opened his mouth, ”Don’t answer that. But I’ve seen the way you two look at each other, is that wedding bells I think I hear?” He put a hand dramatically behind his ear and cocked his head.

”I should have just let myself die in the wilderness.” Dean muttered, face burning. ”There’s nothing going on.” He said, louder.

”Sure.” Gabriel pulled a bag of jelly babies out of… somewhere, and started eating, ”Cas definitely gives free refills to everyone, that’s not just you.” He stared, unblinking, at Dean. Eating.

All those times Cas had come by with the coffee pot, standing at Dean’s shoulder, asking what he’s ’up to’…

”Exacly.” Gabriel said.

Dean filed away that info to look at later. In a car with this guy was not the time to process that there might be a chance Cas thought… might feel…

”You know, I feel bound to tell you, I had a chat with Castiel and he’s really not into BDSM so you might want to get your little leather fetish under control if you’re gonna–”

” _Jesus_ , Gabriel, you work with children!”

”So?” Gabriel shrugged his shoulders and ate some more jelly babies.

”And what the hell do you mean, _leather fetish_?”

Gabriel reached out and pinched Dean’s jacket between two fingers, tugging and grinning around his mouthful of candy.

”Oh, shut the fuck up, anyway it’s none on your business.” He said instead, desperate to talk about something else, anything else. ”Where is Cas anyway? Where does he go every Wednesday?”

Gabriel put the jelly babies down. Which made Dean suddenly very, very uneasy. He had a feeling this subject change was not exactly gonna be what he wanted it to be.

”He has a standing appointment.”

That was worrying. Dean didn’t think he’d ever heard Gabriel sound that serious before.”At…?”

Gabriel picked up the jelly babies again and stuffed several into his mouth. Dean stared at the road disappearing under beneath them, wondering, waiting for an answer. Could Cas be sick?

”Dean,” Gabriel said solemnly, ”how much has my brother told you about his time in the army?”

All the air went out of Dean’s lungs.

For a moment, it seemed impossible. Impossible that Castiel, that his Cas, could ever have been anything but the gentle, solemn person he knew and cared for, could ever have worn a uniform that didn’t say Taste ’Buds, could ever have been a part of a faceless mass, could ever have carried a gun. And then that moment passed, and he saw in front of him Cas’ sad, guarded eyes. Saw him move with careful, considered motions, saw him bundled up in that gigantic trenchcoat like it could protect him. He saw Cas gripping Dean’s arm and the car door, breathing deeply, staving off panic. Staving off ’a bad memory’.

’It’s about loyalty. I understand loyalty.’ He had said, less than two weeks ago. ’I am not what I was supposed to be’ he had said.

”Oh.” Dean said.

”Wait.” Gabriel said, alarmed.

”Oh.” Dean said again.

”You didn’t know. Shit, you didn’t know.”

”He’s a soldier.” Dean murmured.

”Fucking hell.” Gabriel threw his hands in the air. Dean didn’t have the presence of mind to care about the jelly babies he would never, ever be getting out of the upholstery.

”Or he was one.” He said.

”He told me you know more than anyone else, I guess I shouldn’t have assumed that meant you knew jack-shit. Cas, you son of a bitch, we keep telling you to–” Gabriel cut himself off. ”You know, forget I said anything. Forget this whole conversation, I told you nothing. Okay? _Nothing_.”

”We talked about your father,” Dean said. He wasn’t listening to Gabriel. ”I should have realised, that’s not your run of the mill awful dad, he raised you like soldiers, didn’t he? Or he tried. He was one too?” His mind was supplying him with images, endless images of the teenage Castiel he’d imagined before, short and gangly and serious, but now cowering in front of a harsh faceless man in uniform, growing up with his head bowed, scared to speak up, Cas in an indeterminable desert somewhere with blood on his hands.

”Well, yes, Lieutenant Colonel actually, but Dean, if Cas hasn’t talked to you about this on his own–”

”Shit,” Dean exclaimed, ”I’ve been an insensitive _ass_ talking about my own, tiny problems and all the while he’s been–”

” _Dean_.”

Dean shut up.

”Firstly, if you’d been an ass, Cas wouldn’t have kept going on roadtrips with you, okay? This is the most time he’s spent outside the house in– anyway, secondly, I thought you knew already, okay? I thought you knew _something_! Or I wouldn't have said anything. So you’re gonna go back to not knowing anything. If you make him backtrack because of this I swear to– I will haunt your pretty ass, _capish_?”

Dean thought about Cas’ smile, his quiet laugh.

”Yeah.” He said. ”Yeah, of course, I wouldn’t… where is he right now, Gabriel?”

Gabriel sighed heavily.

”Where’s this appointment he’s having?”

”Headley Court,” he said, ”Defense Medical Rehabilitation Centre. He… He was not the same, after he came back. He needs help. Of course anyone growing up in that house would need– _anyway_. That’s where I drive him every Wednesday.”

They didn’t say anything for a while. The road kept passing beneath them, and now Dean definitely recognized his surroundings. They would be back in Leatherhead soon.

”Turn right here.” Gabriel muttered. ”Shit, I really thought you knew.”

Dean turned right. ”We’ve haven’t known each other that long.” He said.

Soon they were pulling up outside Taste ’Buds and Gabriel’s shop.

”I’m going to pick up Cas.” Gabriel said, unbuckling.

”Alright,” Dean nodded, following his lead. ”I’ll just sit inside and wait for you guys or–”

”No, Dean,” Gabriel sighed. Dean stopped and looked at him. He looked tired. Looked for the first time like he might actually be ten years older than Cas. Looked for the first time a little bit like Cas’ brother. ”He’s never up to seeing anyone, it’s better you talk tomorrow.”

Dean slowly buckled in again. ”Okay.” He said.

Gabriel started out the door.

”Uh,” Dean said and he paused, ”thanks, for coming out there and for, you know.”

”Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said, and sounded a bit more like himself again. ”We would have sent Meg but it would have been a pain to go looking for your body so… honestly I saved us all a lot of time.” He closed the car door over Dean’s snort of laughter. Through the window, he was miming what seemed like an elaborate and bloody death scene, and pointing at Dean.

Dean laughed, and drove off. Gabriel, honestly, could be worse.

 

* * *

 

He stood leaning against the doorway, sipping a bottle of beer, looking at the Impala. There was so much left to do. So much work to be finished. But for now, maybe he could just look at her and drink.

He scrubbed a weary hand over his face, scratching at the stubble on his chin. Time to shave again. His arms felt heavy though. Holding the bottle was struggle enough.

He felt lost.

”So, Sam’s getting married.” He said to the empty room. It wasn’t empty though. Not quite, not to him. ”Can you believe it?” He took a long drag of beer. ”Of course you can’t, last time you saw him he was thirteen years old. And also, you know. You’re a car.”

He moved across the room, feet dragging across the concrete, and sat down with his back against her door. Like he’d done the first day he came here. Like he’d done his entire childhood. His eyes landed on the picture little Charlie had drawn: the blue and green and overspilling smiles, pinned up on the wall next to the tools.  
”When did Sam grow up?” His voice cracked, thick from something like tears, and he blinked furiously to keep them away, to keep it all away. ”I think I remember him like you do. I think he’s still thirteen, and gangly, and looking at me like–” He put the bottle down before he could decide to throw it at the wall. ”He’s gonna get married. And have babies. He’s gonna do the family thing right. Make the Winchester name mean something more than… more than cars and booze and… resentment.” Dean nodded to himself, then thumped his head against the car a couple of times.

His phone burned in his pocket. He wondered if Cas was okay. Stupid. He obviously wasn’t.

”I thought you were like me, Baby.” He told the car. ”Maybe you’re more like Cas. All rattled up inside. Or maybe we all are.”

He picked up his beer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been two years. Don't even look at me I am shame.
> 
> That this exists is thanks to archerdork because without her I would do nothing, and also Clara who wrote a review on this fic which made me go 'u know what, i'll give it one more try'. So thanks gals.


	8. And Award for Best Friend Goes to...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean is a terrible friend and pays for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOOK IT'S A CHAPTER. (look at the chapter don't look at me)

**53 DAYS**

”Uhm,” Dean said, staring with eyes wide and feet planted firmly in the doorway to the kitchen. ”Whatcha doin’ there, Eames?”

Eames froze. He slowly straightened his spine and retracted his hand from the espresso machine. He didn’t look guilty as much as he looked like Dean was about to get murdered by a crime boss for seeing more than he should have. He slowly folded the open bag in his hand, not looking away from Dean. 

”Uhm,” Dean said again. ”Were you… about to put tea leaves in the espresso machine?”

”Mr. Talbot is expecting sir for supper in the great hall tonight at nineteen hundred hours.” Is all Eames said, in his excessively butler-y voice, and strode out of the kitchen.

Dean investigated the espresso machine very carefully before he made himself a cup. He’s at Taste Buds’ just as much as before, so if Talbot’s plan was to make Dean stay at the mansion and work harder at the car then he failed spectacularly. He just made Dean feel slightly more shaky-handed and a little like there’s little electric shocks going through his head.

… Maybe he should drink more decaf. ”Holy shit, this country is making me weak. Decaf? what the fuck am I talking about?” He muttered to himself as he lifted the tiny cup. He paused as he realizes his little finger was sticking out. ”Who am I.” 

 

* * *

 

He gripped the normal sized cup with the Taste Buds’ logo in his manly, non-little-finger-sticking-out-hand and sighed in relief. 

”Man, what _do_ you put in this?” He leaned back and shoved the rest of the cupcake into his mouth. Cas had hung his apron over his arm rest, very neatly folded. He was sitting a little hunched but all soft, still lines and serious face. 

”Coffee beans.” He said.

Once again Dean wasn’t sure if laughing would be mean. It _sounded_ like a joke, but didn’t look like one. He settled for smiling. Perhaps too fondly. Perhaps getting stuck staring at the little creases at the corners of his eyes. Perhaps.

”So anyway,” he snapped himself out of it. ”Then Charlie decides that I’m _coming with her_ to comic con, this is last year, _and_ that I need to wear a costume. Which. Hell no. Except, she won’t take no for an answer and as usual she gets Jo on her side–”

”Jo is your friend who throws the knives?”

”–yes. Yes, that’s… that is exactly how I’d describe her actually. Good job. So they’re both conspiring against me and that means there’s no way for me to get out of this with my dignity intact. That’s just how the two of them work. I wake up a couple of days before the convention fairly sure that I’ve managed to convince them to leave me alone. That was my first mistake,” He lifted his coffee mug in a mock-toast and Cas actually lifted his own and knocked them together gently. ”I was wrong of course, they had a _plan_. They actually blindfold me and stuff me into the backseat of a car!”

”For the entire drive?” Cas looked a little alarmed.

”Oh, no. I don’t think they’re actually _that_ evil. They took it off when I stopped swearing and threatening to murder them. It was actually a fun roadtrip, but dear god don’t tell them I said that. When we get there they but me in a batman costume. There were… pros and cons. The pros were that no one could actually really see my face so I was spared a lot of the humiliation I would have suffered if anyone had recognized me or, god forbid, taken a photo of me an put it online somewhere. I hear that shit never goes away. The cons were that it was made of actual leather and I was sweating like a pig for the entire two days. I thought I was going to boil all the blood out of my body and just shrivel up and straight up die.”

Cas laughed quietly, his shoulders shaking and his eyes shining. Dean’s chest felt warm. From the coffee. Obviously. 

”I once dressed up for Halloween.” He said 

” _Once?_ You never did it as a kid or anything? Come on, even _I_ went trick or treating as a kid. And as a teenager. You know, for Sam’s sake.” He took a long sip of his drink and looked away from Cas. ”And for the candy.”

”Halloween was a very difficult time for Gabriel.” Cas nodded seriously. ”To have to choose between candy and pranking innocent strangers. It was like Sophie’s choice every year.”

”Shit, I can imagine. What did he choose, in the end?”

”Both, usually.”

Dean snorted loudly and if he wasn’t mistaken, Cas looked quite pleased. 

”Two years ago Meg made us dress up. I think because she wanted to wear black contacts and scare the costumers.”

”She’s a scary person, isn’t she?” Dean said, automatically lowering his voice and leaning forwards in his seat. He was sitting with his back against the counter, which meant he couldn’t keep track of her. It made him nervous if he thought too much about it. 

Cas took a non-committal sip from his cup.

”What were you dressed as though?” Dean asked, a thousand images rolling through his head. Not all of them appropriate to share with the class.

”An angel.” He answers, face completely straight. A lot straighter than Dean was feeling at the moment.

”What, really? Like, wings, halo, night-gown?” 

”Wings, yes. They were extremely inconvenient to wear around this much porcelain.” He frowned adorably. ”Gabriel made me a halo out of a glittery hat he had lying around. And I wore armor.”

Dean’s brain short-circuited a little. ”Armor, like, chest plate and… things?”

”Yes.” Cas nodded, ”inspired by the roman era. I took some liberties with the Christian faith, to say the least. It was quite cathartic, actually.”

Dean tried very hard to stop imagining Cas wearing roman armor. 

”Sales must have gone up.” He adds meekly.

”Turn around did. No one wanted to stick around with Meg staring them down and trying to deal their souls away from them. They bought their drinks and left quite quickly.”

”Man,” Dean laughed, ”I would pay good money to see that. Did Gabriel take any pictures?”

He wondered if he’d ever had this before. He wondered if he’d ever sat with someone like this, laughing like it was nothing, feeling weightless. Had he ever had this warm, tight, fluttering in his chest when he looked at another person before? He wasn’t sure. Or he was, but he wasn’t ready to look to closely at it just yet. 

 _Wait_ , his mind told him. _Not today. Just enjoy it_. He leaned his jaw on his fist and listened to Cas talk. He wondered if he’d ever smiled quite like this before. He didn’t think so. It felt new on his face. 

A week ago he’d felt like he met Castiel for the first time again. He’d met him for the first time with the knowledge of who he’d been. He had felt awkward, not knowing how to act. He’d been nervous. 

”Is something wrong, Dean?” Castiel had asked after a while. They had been in a car, because honestly that’s where they spent most of their time together.

”You know Gabriel helped me out yesterday?”

”Yes.” Cas had answered, and it was a little questioning. Reasonable since, yes of course he knew, he had _sent_ him.

”He. He didn't mean to but he let some stuff slip… about–”

”Oh.” His voice had sounded very different suddenly, and Dean had regretted everything, absolutely everything.

”I’m sorry I just felt like I ought to tell you. He felt really bad about it, because it wasn’t his story to tell– Not that he told me any stories, he just… well, actually he assumed I knew–”

”Dean.” Cas had interrupted, and Dean had actually shut his jaw with an audible snap. ”Don’t worry, I don’t mind that you know.”

Dean had sighed in relief.

”How… much do you know?” Cas voice had been extra careful, almost that fake nonchalant that Dean favored so much. 

”Basically nothing. Just that– that you were in the army. And where you go every Wednesday.”

Cas had nodded, and not said anything for a while. The sound of the road on the tires has almost been ringing in Dean’s ears he felt so uncomfortable. 

”It’s okay, Dean. You don’t have to look so scared.”

”I’m not–” Dean had scoffed, but trailed off again. ”You don’t have to talk about it or anything I just thought you should know that I knew.”

”Thank you.” He had said. And then they’d talked about other things. He had been so worried it would change things. He had been so worried that Cas would lose the easy way he had about him now and sure, things had been a little tense but– but now here they were. Sitting opposite each other and talking about nonsense, talking about stupid stuff that was making them smile and laugh and–

Dean wondered if he’d ever felt like this before. 

 

* * *

 

**50 DAYS**

Talbot was making him do a tune up on one of the Camaros. 

”Come to London–” He muttered as he pulled harshly (not too harshly though, this was a nice car) at the hood. ”Fix the Impala, it’ll only take a couple of months–” he rummaged through the tools, there was literally no order to any of this. ”We need a specialist in American muscle–” He threw a couple of the wrong types of wrenches carelessly (not too carelessly though, he made sure he wouldn’t hit any of the cars) over his shoulder, ”– _Oh_ , and _while you’re here_ , why don’t you just fix the rest of my cars too? What I brilliant idea I just had, that won’t drag out the process at all.”

His phone rang. He didn’t bother to look at the screen before he answered, either it was Sam or it was Cas. Both good options. One a little better.

”Hey, it’s De–”

”GREETINGS JACKASS.”

”Fuck.”

”DAMN RIGHT ’FUCK’, YOU THINK YOU CAN GO TO ENGLAND AND THEN NOT CALL US FOR TWO MONTHS?”

”I… left you a voicemail, Jo.”

”Voicemail is _not proper communication_ –” Charlie’s voice cut in and dear lord that meant he was on speaker with them both. That never ended well for him. 

”HELL NO IT’S NOT. YOU’RE LUCKY I’M NOT COMING OVER THERE TO KICK YOUR ASS. WE HAD TO HEAR FROM _SAM_. I MEAN: _SAM_ –”

”Please, Jo,” Dean held the phone away from his ear. ”I know I’m far away but that’s the magic with phones you don’t actually have to yell–”

”WHEN YOUR BEST FRIEND IS AN ABANDONING MOTHERFUCKING–”

”Dean, that was majorly uncool of you.” Charlie interrupted. Dean put down the tools and leaned back against the car. ”I’d love to yell at you too but Jo’s better at it than I am–”

”DAMN RIGHT I AM.” could be heard from the background.

Dean actually felt bad now. He hadn’t realised how much he missed them until he heard their voices. Even though Jo was still yelling.

”I’m sorry.” He said. ”I lost track of time. This place is fucking weird.”

Jo came back to the phone and, amazingly, spoke at a normal volume. ”The roadhouse is not the same without your drunk ass, man. When are you coming home?”

”As soon as I’m done with the Impala, I promise.”

”Yeah, shit, Sam mentioned that. Blast from the past, right?” Jo said.

”No fucking kidding. You met Talbot right, Jo? When you were a kid?”

”Yeah,” She said, ”I think so, he was your dad’s friend, always smelled of tobacco? Had that leather jacket thing you all seem to love so much?”

Dean laughed. ”Yeah, I guess. He’s gone native now, has a mustache. Walks around in suits. He drives a _Rolls Royce_.”

”What the FUCK.” Jo said. ”Get out of there, get out of there while you can. If you come home and start driving _Rolls Royce_ ’s I’m giving you shock therapy, I swear to god.”

”Hey, Dean!” Charlie cut in, ”do people say ’spiffing’? Do _you_ say ’spiffing’?”

Dean grinned widely. ”Fuck, I missed you guys.”

”Well, duh.” They both said. 

 

–

 

”There are _babies painted on the ceiling_. That’s the kind of world I’m in right now.”

”What.” Jo said.

”I thought they only did that to churches.” Charlie added.

”And don’t fucking get me started on the butler. He creeps me out. The first couple of weeks he served me nothing but tea. _Tea_. Do I look like a buddhist to you?”

”Literally the opposite.” Charlie said.

”Exactly.” Dean agreed. ”and he keeps… creeping on me. Like the other night I was going to the kitchen to get a bee– some water and he was just fucking _there_ when I turned around! All ’sir is wandering about at an hour better reserved for rest.’ and ’does sir need assistance?’ and ’I cannot imagine that Mr. Talbot would approve of Sir missing out on precious sleep.’ that is not normal right? That cannot be normal?”

”Calling you sir?” Jo was definitely grinning, ”That is absolutely insane, he needs to get his head tested.”

”I could be a sir.” Dean muttered, even thought it did still creep him out that Eames refused to call him anything else. ”Maybe he just refuses to learn my name? I wouldn’t put it past him.”

 

–

 

A little later, the interrogation started. Because of course it did.

”Sam mentioned a name…” Charlie started.

”Fuck.” Dean said.

”Someone called…” Jo continued, as if Dean was actually going to buy that she couldn’t quite recall the name.

”Was it… Kevin?” Charlie asked. Dean put his head in his free hand.

”No…” Jo considered. ”It was definitely weirder than that. Something like… Colbert?”

Dean considered just hanging up on them. 

”Not Colbert.” Charlie said decisively. ”I think it was Casteban.”

”That’s not a name, Charlie.” Jo scoffed.

Dean groaned loudly.

”No wait!” Charlie called out. ”I remember it now! I’m sure.” 

”Go on then.” Jo said eagerly.

”It was definitely ’an ass that could launch a thousand ships’. I remember it clearly. Curious name, must be British.”

”I’m hanging up on you now.” Dean said. His face was burning like it was 90 percent Bobby’s secret recipe hot sauce and 10 percent actual flames. ”I hate you both and I, for the record, have no idea what you’re talking about.”

After they stopped laughing, they said they were happy for him. Dean continued to say he had no idea what they were talking about.

”He makes good coffee and has a better inner GPS than I do, that’s it.” He tried to defend himself. ”That’s it.”

”Is that what Sam said?” Charlie asked.

”No, I don’t think that’s what Sam said.” Jo answered.

 

–

 

”How’s Lucy?” He asked.

”We broke up.” Charlie said.

”Which you’d _know_ ,” Jo adds, ”if you’d called and asked hey, what’s up?”

”Shit.” Dean sighed, wanting to kick himself where it hurt. ”I’m– guys I’m really sorry. I got caught up in… in the Impala, and being here, and now Sam– I’m sorry, those are horrible excuses. I should have called. 

And the academy award for best friend goes to… someone else. 

”Dean, we get it. Come on, we know you. I’m sure you’ve missed us.”

”I have!” He said. ”I was just talking about comic con last year with Cas– anyway, you’re both assholes, I’m an asshole, and that’s why we’re friends.”

”He’s got a point.” Charlie said. 

”But _call Bobby_ , you fucking doofus. He’s too proud to call you but I’m pretty sure he thinks you don’t love him anymore.” Jo said, and Dean felt another stab in his stomach. 

They said their goodbyes and Dean put the phone back in his pocket. He resolved himself to making some awkward phone calls for the next couple of days. He had some selfishness to make up for.

 

* * *

 

**49 DAYS**

Truth in point the next day he calls Bobby. He does it from Taste Buds’ because the day before, after talking to Charlie and Jo his mind had been hurting and his hands had been shaking so he had left Talbot’s cars to their own devices and dove so far into the Impala he was surprised he didn’t drown in engine grease and wire. And then, when he’d looked up, it had been dark outside. He had stumbled back a couple of steps and looked at the car, then stumbled forwards again to peer at the engine. He has realised, slowly and painfully, that if he got in the driver’s seat and turned the ignition… she would start. She would roar to life. She wouldn’t run smooth, he wasn’t _that_ good, not quite. But she might just… run. And in another month or so… she might run really, really well. She might be her old self.

Dean needed to not look at her for a while. 

He and Bobby had the same chat they always do. Except that Bobby called him a couple of extra names and asked a couple of extra times how he was. They still resolutely Did Not Talk About John, as per usual. Bobby asked very, very carefully how work was going, and Dean said ”good”, because that’s as true as he could express it at that point. Dean asked about the house and Bobby grunted a little and muttered about stabilizing the porch and something about the attic. They hummed a little about sports. It was the kind of intense comfort that made him wish, for the first time in longer than he would ever have thought would go, for _home_. For Bobby’s cigarette smoke and creaking old house and rough beard. For Sammy’s little hand in his, and the smell of grease and a leather jacket. 

When they had hung up, he felt almost cathartic.He lets his head drop back against the back of the chair and takes a couple of deep breaths. A burger would be absolutely brilliant right about now. He wondered idly if Cas could make him one. 

As if summoned, Cas’ face showed up in Deans field of vision, blocking out the fluorescent glare and somehow making the light look soft. Dean refused to let himself compare it to a halo. He absolutely refused. 

Cas smiled at him. ”Do you need anything, Dean?”

”Can you sit with me for a while?” He asked before he could stop himself. Holy fuck that was an embarrassing thing to say to someone. He would have taken it back but Cas immediately took off his apron and sat down.

”Is something wrong?” He asked. He didn’t look all that worried though. Probably because Dean could feel himself smiling. He tried to stop. It didn’t work. ”Is Sam alright?”

Dean hadn’t told him yet. Hadn’t mentioned Sam getting married to anyone and he had absolutely no idea why. ”Nah, Sam’s good.” He said. It wasn’t a lie. Sam was probably better now than he had been at any point in his life previously. Maybe that was what hurt so fucking much. 

”I’m glad.” Castiel said and holy fucking hell he actually, genuinely meant it. 

”Are you okay?” Dean asked because he Cas was wringing his hands. He hadn’t noticed immediately but the apron wasn’t hung up neatly on the arm of the chair, he was pulling is between his fingers in a very un-Castiel-y manner. 

”Actually–” Cas started and Dean sat straight up in his chair in alarm. ”Please, no, nothing to worry about but I… I have a favour to ask you.”

Dean slowly leans back again.

”Dude, of course, anything. What do you need?”

”Gabriel has been having some trouble with his suppliers and… it’s a long story but he needs to drive up to north London tomorrow which means…”

Cas waited as if Dean was going to catch on to what he meant but unfortunately for him, Dean just wasn’t that smart.

”Dean, I could really use a ride tomorrow. To Headley.” He said this quickly, not quite looking at Dean. ”I wouldn’t ask except…”

”Sure.” Dean said. 

Cas looked at him. The fact that he looked surprised was kind of hard not to take personally. Did Cas not know… 

”I’ll take you, of course.”

Cas smiled. ”Thank you, Dean.” He had a horrible suspicion that they sat there for a while, smiling at each other. Then Cas stood up. ”Meg is about to murder me, I must get back to work.”

”Sure, yeah, don’t die.”

He could have sworn he could feel Cas’ fingers lightly stoke his hair as he passed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, nanowrimo 2016, working it's magic on my writing ambition. Hope you guys enjoy. (not a lot of days left for Dean now)


	9. Blood is Thicker Than Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are mostly feelings actually, and only one day for a change.

**48 DAYS**

"It's Wednesday,” Dean said to himself. ”And I’m hanging out with Cas. It’s no big deal. It's the same as it was yesterday. It just happens to be a Wednesday this time. No. Big. Deal.” If Dean’s life had a narrator it would be laughing at him right now. Just… laughing. Because that narrator would without a doubt be Sam.

He was sitting in the ’73 Dodge Challenger in the parking lot outside of Cas’ building. It was the second time he was there and the place was still pretty much depressing. All in all, these small towns outside London looked like they needed a major overhaul or at the very least a new coat of paint and for a garbage truck to go by and, you know, do it’s job. Dean thrummed his fingers against the steering wheel. Was he supposed to leave the car? He didn’t know the protocol here. As if on cue that inner little judgmental voice which sounded more like Sam the longer he was away from the States reminded him of every single date he had ever picked up with his car, where he had definitely left the car and met them at the front door except… this was about as far from a date two people having an arranged meeting could get. He was driving his friend to a Medical Rehabilitation Centre because he has PTSD. That was definitely what he needed to focus on right now. Not his fucking feelings.

Not that he had any fucking feelings to focus on.

Cas looked about as ragged as his apartment building when he came walking toward Dean’s car. The trenchcoat was fluttering slightly around his knees but he had his hands shoved far down into the pockets, so it was stretched tight across his shoulders and chest. It made him look like he was cold. As if he was fighting a wind only he could feel.

Dean leaned over to open the passenger side door and Cas ducked inside, giving him a smile which was nothing less than haggard. 

”Dean.” He said in that way he had of making Dean’s name sound unlike any other word in the English language.

”Hey, Cas, what’s up?” Dean grinned weakly.

Cas buckled in carefully and nodded silently before he added: ”good. I’m alright. I’m good. Thank you for asking.” There was a pause as Dean pulls out from the parking spot and heads for the road. ”How are you?” Cas asked, as if remembering he should. Dean threw him a glance. He was definitely acting weird, eyes flickering around and fingers twitching and clutching at the ends of his coat.

”Don’t worry about me, Cas.” He murmured, not sure if Cas was actually listening to him or not. 

They drove for a little while. Cas indicated the turns when they came but kept avoiding Dean’s eyes and looking out the window, or at the dashboard.

”So.” Dean decided to try. He had no idea whether or not it was a good idea. ”I don’t wanna put any pressure on you or anything, trust me, I just wanna ask like… should I ask?”

Cas looked at him. He didn’t look confused though. He pretty much knew exactly what Dean was getting at. 

”It’s not… easy to speak about.” 

”Hey, I get that, absolutely. Which is why I’m not asking you to. You do whatever you want to do I just want to let you know that I’ll listen or whatever.” … or whatever. Like a fucking poet. He stared resolutely out at the road. Goddamn he felt like an idiot. Was he living a fucking chick-flick?

After Cas hadn’t answered in a couple too many seconds he had to glance over, and found Cas’ eyes with his, and they were… well, just soft, really. 

”I will… take you up on that.” He said, and Dean sort of deflated in relief. ”How is the work with the car going?” 

Dean foot twitched on the gas pedal. ”Uhm. Yeah, good it’s, going forward actually. I mean the main problem was really the fire damage to the wiring, the whole lot had to be replaced which is just a lot of nit-picky work. I kinda like it, cars always make sense, you know? One plus two is three. It’s definitely a car again. Instead of a burned wreck.”

”Mr. Talbot will be pleased then?”

Dean scoffed, ”I fucking hope so.”

”You did come all the way out here.”

”That I fucking did.”

”Left turn up ahead.”

”Gotcha.”

Dean thought about a GPS voiced by Cas, and got lost in a little daydream about how awesome that would be for a second. 

It was only a ten minute drive, which seemed a little too short. Probably the shortest time they’d both spend in a car together if nothing else. They had to stop at a security gate, where Castiel had a short conversation with the guard and showed off his ID and another card stamped with the centre’s logo. Dean got a visitor’s badge and a pass which would allow him to leave and re-enter the grounds for the next couple of hours. Then they pulled into the centre and it definitely had the same Old British Mansion-feeling that Pachesham Manor had with the climbing green plants and the brick and the gravel and the fucking sprawling grounds. Here and there people were walking around. Dean saw a couple of gardeners trimming hedges and cutting grass, as well as what looked like nurses in scrubs slowly walking through the grounds with their arm linked with a man or woman wobbling forward slowly. He saw a man with a prosthetic leg slowly trying to balance his way towards a bench with a nurse close by at the ready to steady or catch him were something to go wrong. 

Cas belonged here, in some way. It felt strange to think about. Perhaps he had been like this, when he first came back. Without prosthetics but still maybe wobbling across the grass, arm linked with a nurse, eyes blank and haunted. 

”You shouldn’t wait for me.” Cas said, voice low and non-committal in a way Dean couldn’t quite identify. ”It’s only a short drive, you could go into Leatherhead again. Or… run errands. I will be done in approximately three hours.” 

Dean nodded quietly. Cas moved to get out of the car and before he could stop himself Dean had grabbed his arm. Cas looked back at him. His eyes were so shuttered. 

”Uhm.” Dean said. As it turned out, he had nothing to actually contribute with here. He was so far out of the water evolution was prioritizing his gills away. Or something. ”Just. Take care of yourself. I’m kinda fond of you, you know.”

For a second Cas did nothing, then he raised his free arm and squeezed Dean’s hand for a couple of long, long seconds. He let go and got out of the car. Dean watched him go into the building, then put his head on the steering wheel. His heart was fucking pounding. 

Obviously there was no way he was going. He sat in the car for a while and played a little on his phone. He texted Sam and asked what was up with him in a hopefully casual way. And he texted the girls with variations of mild complaints because he felt they needed to know that England was ridiculous still and always. Then he watched the people for a while. Looking at the frowns, the blank looks, the smiles. Quite a lot of smiles, from staff and patients alike. 

Unsure of how many rules he was breaking, he got out of the car and walked towards the grassy grounds and a bench beneath a tree which seems somewhat out of the way. Last thing he wanted right now was to freak someone out. Or get forcibly removed from the grounds leaving Cas without a ride because he couldn’t keep his nose clean. 

He sat in the shade and looked at what seemed to be an impromptu game of catch between two women, one with a prosthetic arm. They were laughing. 

This was another world. This was a collection of broken people trying to make their way back, not a world where someone’s biggest problem was that their little brother was getting married. Not a world where things were easy, but maybe a world where the easy things were the important ones. Like throwing a ball back and forth. Catching it well with the arm you have left, and fumbling the throw with the arm that’s not actually really there anymore, the arm that’s been replaced with the closest thing to a working limb you could get. 

Dean looked at her grin when the throw went far and well, watched her frown and get frustrated when the angle went wrong. Watched her grip the soft flesh of her elbow and glare at the place where the soft became manufactured. 

Watched the other woman laugh when the ball hit her in the chest, but keel over when she tried to take a step and her leg folded underneath her. 

He watches a man, younger than he was, walk with his arm linked with a nurse’s, and stare at nothing as the nurse talked softly to him, pointing to things and getting no reaction. 

Someone sat down beside him. 

First, he thought it was Castiel, but it was a man he didn’t know, with crooked glasses, a kind smile, and a sweater vest. Not Cas, but someone Cas might like. Cas would definitely wear sweater vests.

”Uh, hi.” He said.

”Hello.” The man nodded, ”I’m Dr. Haywood. You must be Dean Winchester.”

Dean looked quickly over his shoulder, as if he thought someone would be standing behind him with prompt cards and _that_ would be why the Doctor knew his name. Honestly, sometimes he didn’t blame Sam for thinking he was an idiot.

”Uh. Yes. I’m sorry, how do you know me?”

The man smiled quickly and took his glasses off. He cleaned them carefully with the corner of his shirt. ”I’m terribly sorry, I did not mean to startle you. I have worked quite closely with Castiel during his time here, Gabriel forewarned us that he would not be dropping Castiel off today.”

Dean would be a little thrown but he could no doubt see why this man was working here, he had trustworthy shooting out of his ass. ”Ah. I get it. Sorry if this… messes with his routine or something, it’s just that Gabriel couldn’t today and Cas asked me so…” He trailed off because he couldn’t really read the look on the Doctor’s face.

”I’m sure you know that Castiel does not have an easy time forming personal relationships.” He said at long last, still carefully cleaning his glasses.

Dean wasn’t sure what to say, he felt a little put on the spot. ”Well. I mean. I guess? He doesn’t really hang out with anyone other than Gabriel and Meg and… me, I guess.”

”Yes, that is very true.” The Doctor put his glasses back on. By now they _had_ to be clean. ”And I am sure you know you have become very important to him, in a short amount of time.”

Dean startled and looked away quickly. ”He,” he cleared his throat uncomfortably, ”He talks about me… in therapy?”

”Patient confidentiality, Mr. Winchester. I can’t disclose that information.”

”Right.” 

They sat in silence for a minute. Dean was wildly uncomfortable, and buzzing with questions, but kept his mouth firmly shut. Somehow, he really wanted to make a good impression here. Some birds tweeted happily in their awkward silence, and around them the grounds kept buzzing with slow, careful activity.

”Do you have any experience with the military, mr. Winchester?” the Doctor asked.

”My father was in the forces, for a while.” Dean responded. 

”May I ask what made him leave?” The tone was incredibly respectful. Dean couldn’t find it in himself to get defensive. It was a little weird. 

”Uh, as far as I know, he wasn’t fit for active duty. It was his hearing, I think.”

”He doesn’t talk about it much, then?” 

That voice was so insanely reasonable Dean found himself answering before he could think a second about whether or not he was comfortable sharing the information.

”Nah, he doesn’t talk about much.” The bitterness in his voice would have embarrassed him but… the way Dr. Haywood was just, looking calmly ahead, and the people around him, fighting larger battles than he’d ever seen or would see in his life, made it feel… not easy but… like it made sense, just a little bit. ”My brother keeps telling me… Well, he keeps telling me to cut ties with him. That it would be good for me, or whatever.”

Dr. Haywood hummed. ”Do you know the saying, blood is thicker than water?” He asked.

Dean frowned. ”Yeah, of course.”

”Do you know the entirety of it?”

”I… suppose I don’t.”

The Doctor smiled. ”The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.” He said. ”The ties we choose are sometimes much stronger than the ties chosen for us.” He regarded Dean closely, ”I believe that is something both you and Castiel can benefit from remembering.”

Dean didn’t answer. He couldn't help thinking about what Sam had almost said. The words _real family_ throbbed in the back of his mind.

They were silent for a little while longer, and then the Doctor said, ”when we encouraged Gabriel to help Castiel form friendships… you were not exactly what we had in mind.”

Dean bristled, ”Hey, I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean but–”

”You will be leaving.” The Doctor interrupted. ”We hear your return to the United States is imminent.”

Dean deflated. Dr. Haywood rose and straightened his clothes out.

”We do what we can to take care of our residents, Mr. Winchester. Castiel has become very important to us. We encourage you to keep in mind what your leaving might… leave behind.”

Dean had nothing to say about that, indignation and something like guilt flooding his stomach. The Doctor gave him one last long glance.

”In some ways, you are very good for him.” He said, then he turned and walked away. Dean stared after him, wondering.

 

* * *

 

When Castiel walked out of the building Dean was leaning on the side of the car, waiting for him. He stood straight when he saw the look on Cas’ face. He didn’t have time to comment though, when he opened his mouth to speak their eyes met and he closed his jaw quickly. This was not the time. Cas looked haggard, his hair was a complete mess and not even in the hot way, and he looked like he might have been crying. 

They got in the car silently. Cas leaned his head against the window and breathed slow and deep. Dean was pretty sure his eyes were closed. Watching him made Dean’s chest ache. As they drove away and Dean handed back his visitor’s badge and permit to the security guard at the gate, Cas stayed still and silent. Dean turned the radio on low, until it was just a hum of string music and a crooning voice that he hoped to hell was soothing. 

It was already late, and the sun was setting. The reddish light cast Cas in a glow that was just… 

 _God, he’s beautiful_. 

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, Dr. Haywood’s words hiding on the inside of his eyelids. 

When he parked Cas opened his eyes but didn’t immediately get out. He looked up towards where Dean assumed his apartment was, not blankly but contemplatively. 

”You okay, man?” Dean finally asked, unable to wait another second to say something, get some sort of response from him, return to the place where they would look at each other and smile and need nothing more in that moment. 

Castiel didn’t flinch, which was a relief. He just nodded. ”I think I will be alright.” He said. Then he glanced at Dean and made his heart stop in his chest: ”Do you want to come upstairs?”

Dean gaped. For several seconds. 

Cas gave him a shaky smile, ”I was going to make some dinner. And coffee?”

”Yes,” Dean said, and cleared his throat. ”Yeah, definitely. I’ll– if you’re sure? Gabriel mentioned you–”

”I’d rather not be alone right now.”

Dean could feel his own heartbeat in his fucking fingertips. ”Yeah. Of course.”

They stepped out of the car together and Cas waited next to him as he fumbled a little to close it. They walked elbow to elbow across the lot, saying nothing. Cas punched in a code to open the door and they took the elevator to the fourth floor. Dean was torn between avoiding his eyes and staring. Standing close in the elevator like they were was playing tricks on his muscle control. The hollow of Cas’ throat was peeking out in the gap at his collar. He took a deep breath. 

The elevator doors opened and Dean followed close behind Cas to the apartment door. The name tag on the mail slot said C. Novak, and every item inside said Cas. It was small but the windows were large. The kitchen, clean but cluttered, with spices lined up neatly along the counter and towels folded and hung up, was separated from the lounge by a kitchen island crowded with cookbooks and little plants. In the lounge there was a small couch, dented with soft pillows strewn over it, and books. Lots and lots of books. At the far wall there was a door standing ajar, presumably leading to the bedroom. 

”Lot of… books.” Dean said and turned back to face Cas. He was shrugging out of his trenchcoat and hanging it up, properly, on a hanger. Dean’s eyes caught on the back of his neck. It looked so vulnerable. He wanted to place his hand there, just to cover him up. From the rest of the world. 

”I love to read.” Cas said softly, and reached out his hands towards Dean. For a short, confusing moment, he was about to step into those arms and fold himself into Cas but then he realised and took off and handed him his leather jacket. Cas hung it up next to his. Dean wondered when the last time that jacket had seen a coat hanger was. He couldn’t think of a single time. 

Cas walked over to the kitchen counter and started rummaging through the drawers and the fridge. ”How do you feel about chicken Alfredo?” He asked.

”I… I don’t think I’ve ever had any strong feelings about any Alfredo.” He answered, and Cas smiled weakly at him. His hands looked like they were shaking a little. 

”Are you sure you don’t want to just sit down or something?” Dean asked. 

Cas shook his head slightly, ”Thank you, Dean. But this is what I would like to be doing right now.”

He rolled his shirtsleeves up and Dean immediately needed to sit down. He placed himself on one of the bar stools at the island and observed. 

They didn’t speak much as Cas cooked and Dean tried to help. After insisting for a while Dean was allowed to chop some vegetables, and he ended up rambling a little about Jo as he did, and that time when they were in high school and wanted to practice knife throwing. To be completely honest he just wanted to see if he could make Cas laugh. The haggard look he was wearing was messing with Dean. 

When the pots were simmering Cas came to sit beside Dean on the other barstool. 

”I was dishonorably discharged.” He said, with no warning, looking steadily at Dean.

”Oh.” Dean said. And then he had no idea what to say.

”It’s not a very fun story,” Cas added, ”but in short, I went through the training, and when it came down to it… I could not do what was expected from me. I could not…”

”You don’t have to–” Dean started.

”I want to, Dean.” Somehow their hands were touching on the top of the island. Just slightly resting against each other. ”I could not fire a gun, nor take a life, and that caused… Perhaps that caused some deaths that might have otherwise been avoided. I am trying to come to terms with that.”

Dean’s fingers twitched against the warmth of Cas’. ”Cas, I–”

”My father was not pleased. I was supposed to give my life to the army, one way or the other. To him, it would be preferable that I was one of the soldiers at Headley Court, missing limbs, or… in an unmarked grave–”

Dean grabbed Cas’ hand and squeezed. Cas’ fingers curled softly around his in return. 

”I cannot tell you–” Dean’s voice was rougher than he’d thought it would be, it tore out of his throat with a ferocity which was fitting to how he felt, looking at the wetness in the corner of Castiel’s eyes. ”What it means to me that you’re not. What it means to me that you’re…” Cas’ hand was burning in his. Every inch they were touching was making Dean’s skin tingle. ”I’m not good at–”

The oven timer went off. 

They both pulled away. 

Cas went to the stove and, as Dean pressed his hand to his chest as if that would stop the pounding, started plating them food. As the smell hit him, his stomach rumbled. 

”That smells amazing.” He said. His voice sounded insanely normal. 

”Let’s hope your feelings about Alfredo do not turn to the negative.” Cas smiled and handed him his plate. 

As he might have expected, it was insanely delicious. He shouldn’t have been surprised, he’d tasted Cas’ soup after all, and it has pretty much changed his life. 

”Oh my god, I would marry Alfredo tomorrow.” He said as he shoved food into his mouth. Cas ate in a slightly more dignified manner, but he looked fond. 

 

* * *

 

Dean was not allowed to do the dishes. Instead, Cas made him coffee. He was on the couch, which, as he suspected, he sunk into like a dream as soon as he sat down. The place smelled like coffee beans and sugar. Smelled like Cas. 

”You know,” He said, ”This is a great place. Compared to the manor? This is amazing. I’d sell any manor for a place like this.”

”It’s very small.” Cas commented. 

”Yeah,” Dean said. ”I like it.” 

Cas handed Dean his coffee and sat down next to him. The couch shifted under his weight. Somehow the coffee tasted even better here than at Taste Buds’ and Dean moaned at the taste and let his head fall back. 

”Back home I have this little house, it’s,” he laughed a little, ”it’s basically falling apart but… I always figured I’d fix it up one day, once I had the money for it. Turn it into a nice place to live.” He turned his head towards Cas, who was already looking at him. He had to look away from those eyes. They were too blue.

”You’re not drinking coffee?” He asked. The liquid in Cas’ cup was definitely tea.

”I don’t need coffee right now.” Cas said. 

”Can I?” Dean asked, hand already half-stretched out. Cas gave him the cup. He sniffed it, and took a taste. He chuckled. ”Not bad actually. I guess that’s proof that Eames is actually sabotaging me and making it disgusting on purpose.” He handed the cup back. ”I will never get used to the tea culture here, in any case. Sometimes I can’t wait to get back to the States where people know what to drink, no offense.” 

Cas’ smile slipped slightly.

’ _Keep in mind what your leaving might… leave behind._ ’ 

He went a little cold. 

 

* * *

 

He left when he’d finished his coffee. Cas handed him his jacket and opened the door for him. ”Dean,” he said, ”I wanted to say… thank you. For today. And for–”

”Yeah.” Dean interrupted. ”Yeah. I– you're welcome and… thank you, too.” He held his jacket in both his hands, like a shield in between him and Cas. ”For. Fuck it, you know what for. I’ll see you tomorrow at the coffee shop?”

”Yes. Definitely.” 

It was reassuring. Cas had one hand on the door knob, ready to close it. Dean was having a hard time making his feet move away. 

”Goodnight.” He said.

”Goodnight.” Cas answered. ”I’m… I’m glad you came all the fucking way out here.”

The bark of laughter left Dean before he had time to stop it, but according to the pleased look on Cas’ face, it had been exactly right. 

Cas closed the door and Dean buried his head in his hands. He laughed silently, and wondered if he was going insane. Then he put the thought to bed and left the building. 

Everything, _everything_ was messy. But it was also… it was also kind of fucking amazing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm starting this new thing where I write a chapter, don't even read it, and just post it. I hope you enjoyed.


	10. As Good as Life Can Get

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things change.

**40 DAYS**

It took a little over a week for Dean to screw up the courage to ask. First, he spent some time working on the Impala. Just because the engine would, probably, work if he started it, that didn’t mean there was no more work to be done. The car had to actually be able to go forward as well. And stop. The breaks were giving him some trouble, and Cas came with him to Brighton to pick up a couple of extra parts he’d been missing. 

He found himself taking his time with it. Working slower and more carefully than he specifically had to, but it was nice. He didn’t see Talbot very much. The man was off working again, and Eames was just lurking around the mansion, looking disapprovingly at Dean. At two separate occasions, Dean had entered the kitchen only to find that the espresso machine wasn't where it used to be. He found it hid away in some corner become hiding place. It was never quite a _hiding place_ though because the machine was probably on purpose not completely out of sight, just strategically placed in such a way that would… discourage you from noticing it. And presumably have a ”cuppa” before you remembered it was supposed to be there. It didn’t really bother him that much. Which might have been exactly what bothered Eames so much.

Cas made better coffee than any machine could. Which was the other thing he spent time on while waiting to dare to ask. When Cas couldn’t sit next to him and chat, Dean watched him work, and read car magazines or books. After Cas had seen him finishing Jailbird he had, without a word, had a book from his own library ready when Dean showed up for his daily coffee and whatever food Cas had been cooking the next day. 

”I thought you might enjoy this.” He’d said in his gruff voice and held the book out carefully for Dean to take. And Dean did enjoy it, he really did, but not as much as he enjoyed putting it down when Cas came over to chat about it.  
It seemed Gabriel had been well-informed that the unusual Wednesday had gone well, and as soon as they were in Taste Buds’ at the same time, he confronted Dean about it. 

Dean didn’t tell him that Dr. Haywood had spoken to him. He didn’t tell anyone, actually. 

When Gabriel wanted to know how it had gone, and if he’d ruined anything, he just rolled his eyes and told himto fuck off. Gabriel had grinned and given him finger guns. That was just the relationship they had now. Who knew. It must have happened somewhere in between Gabriel being a dick and Dean sort of not being able to not find it kind of hilarious.

Cas was telling him about an annoying costumer he’d had that morning before Dean dropped by. 

”Personally I simply cannot understand why anyone would be that rude, I know perfectly well my lemon pie is excellent.”

”He did _not_ insult your lemon pie. What did the fucker say? Where does he live?” Dean was mostly joking. Mostly. He had eaten a metric fuckton of Cas’ lemon pie and was willing to go to his grave defending it.

”He said,” Cas paused as if even repeating the words were causing him physical pain, ”it was ’not quite what I had in mind.’” Then he looked at Dean as if to say ’can you _believe it?_ ’

Dean hesitated. ”Well.” He said. ”I don’t agree with him, not a single way from Sunday, but that doesn't sound too bad…”

” _Dean_.” 

”What? What did I say?” 

Castiel gave him an absolutely appalled look.

”I just mean the guy could have thrown it in your face or… I don’t know, called it disgusting he just said it didn’t taste like he expected it to?”

Understanding flooded Cas’ face. ”Oh I see. You simply haven’t been in the United Kingdom long enough, you have not learned the social codes. Saying something is ’not quite what I had in mind’ is like saying… let’s see what would be your equivalent… Perhaps if I told you I couldn’t quite see the difference between your ’67 Impala and ah… an eighties Volvo?”

Dean spluttered, ”W _hy, why would anyone_ – Oh, I see. Wow. What a dickhead. Tell me if he comes in again, dude, I’ll give him piece of my mind. Or you know, a piece of my fist.”

Castiel laughed breathily. Then Gabriel was there suddenly, loudly crinkling with the plastic of a candy wrapper, and Dean cleared his throat and tried to act normal. As opposed to… well, whatever the way he acted when it was just him and Cas was. 

”Hello boys!” Gabriel says and flops down next to Dean. ”What are you talking about?”

”Which customers to assassinate.” Dean answers, trying not to smile. He was less annoyed by the interruption than he would have been a couple of weeks ago. Although he was still finding candy wrappers literally everywhere over the garage. It was somewhat magic. 

”Awesome!” Gabriel says, ”Personally, I’m voting for that guy in the suspenders, you see over there?” He pointed not at all subtly at a man across the café wearing a light green dress shirt and suspenders. ”Who wears suspenders what is this, 1943?”

”Gabriel.” Cas said.

”You want your trousers to stay up? Buy a fucking belt! Or trousers that fit. Honestly the only man who could ever pull off suspenders is Harrison Ford, and believe me, that guy is _no_ Harrison Ford.”

”Gabriel.” Cas said again, and Dean could see where he was going with this, so he was fighting hard to hide his laughter behind his cup. 

”What?”

”Gabriel, you’re wearing suspenders.”

Gabriel looked down at himself, froze, was quiet for a couple of seconds and then he looked up again with a shit eating grin. ”Well, I _am_ a Harrison Ford.”

Dean scoffed so loudly a woman two tables over looked up and threw him a glare. He winked at her. 

”You think that’s funny, Dean-o?” Gabriel asked, and Dean did _not_ like the look on his face. ”Well you know what they say about the last laugh?”

”No, what do they say about the last laugh?” Dean asked, keeping his poker face in place by sheer force of will. ”Enlighten me.”

”Well,” He frowned. ”You know, that the guy who gets the last laugh… is the guy who… really laughs– you know what, fuck off, who did you want to kill?”

Dean shared a grin with Cas. ”Just a guy who insulted Cas’ lemon pie.”

”Well, he must be out of his goddamn mind.” Gabriel blanched.

”That’s what I said!” Dean agreed.

Which was when his phone rang. He picks it out of his pocket expecting one of the gals, or Bobby. He’s been chatting with Bobby, it was nice. He had some tips about the Impala that Dean perhaps didn’t technically need but that were really fucking nice to hear. The phone display read John Winchester. Dean grew a little cold. The phone kept ringing. He tried to remember the last time John had called him twice in such a short time. He couldn’t think of any. 

Gabriel and Cas had started chatting but when the phone rang for the fifth time Gabriel looked over and raised his eyebrows. ”Uh, are you gonna answer that, buddy?”

Dean looked up, but looked at Cas, rather than Gabriel. Cas seemed to know exactly what he meant, and gave him a slight nod. It was support, pure and simple. 

Dean cleared his throat and pressed the little green phone.

”Dad?” He said. Gabriel’s eyes widened and he shared a look with Cas, who subtly, but not subtly enough, shook his head. Dean stood and wandered over to the corner with the computer.

”Dean?” 

He was drunk. There was no doubt about it. When he looked back at the table, Gabriel was saying something to Cas and Cas was waving him away. 

”Where are you, son?”

The question was how to answer. Was his father wondering if he was working? If Talbot was close by? Was he so drunk that he’d actually forgotten that Dean wasn’t even in the country?

”Uh,” Dean started, ”Working with Talbot.” 

There were mumbling sounds and something clanking in the background, ”You not done yet?”

Dean rubbed his face with his free hand. ”No, sir. I’m getting there. Maybe… six more weeks?”

”Alright well, make it quick. You have responsibilities at home.”

”How’s everything running with the shop?” He couldn’t say he wasn’t worried about it. He hadn’t been away for this long since he was a teenager, and he hated to admit it, hated feeling like Sam was right all along, but he didn’t trust John to be able to handle it on his own. 

”Fine. Fucking– Joey, the asshole, he quit on me.”

” _What?_ ” Shit, that was bad. That was really fucking bad. They were already gonna be stretched thin without Dean there and Joey was a really good kid– He glanced over at Gabriel and Cas. They were out of ear shot but looked concerned, both of them. ”What happened?”

”Hell if I know.” John was starting to sound even more muffled, Dean knew the conversation wouldn’t be lasting a lot longer. ”We don’t need him anyway, we’ll be fine just the two of us.” 

Dean’s heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. The two of them. As if they were a team building a company together. As if Winchester and Son actually meant something. As if John showed up to work more than three times a week and actually finished any jobs. As if it wasn’t all on Dean. Joey was good, young but a hard worker, excited about engines. He and Dean worked well together and he hadn’t even thought that things might turn to shit when he left. He’d assumed John would pick up the slack, fuck he’d been stupid. He had to call Joey. See why he’d left. See what was actually up with the shop because he wasn’t getting anything out of John, nothing he could trust at least. 

”Dean?” His father said. Dean tried to remember what an appropriate answer might be.

”Yeah.” He ended up saying. John probably wouldn’t notice if it was a bad answer.

”Get back to work, don’t fail me on this.”

Dean looked at Cas across the room. Cas looked back at him. Those eyes, even across a room, was as a physical touch. He was leaning forward in his chair, back straight, hand clenched on his thigh. So ready to stand, so ready to come over to Dean’s side and… Dean didn’t know what. He just knew that he could still hear Cas’ voice in his head, the sticky heat of sun on his neck, the murmured _how do we forgive our fathers_. 

”No, sir.” Dean said.

As soon as he’d hung up he dialed Joey’s number.

”I’m really sorry, Dean.” He said, and he sounded genuine. ”I like working with you but I can’t deal with John anymore.”

”Shit.” Dean said, burying his face in his hand. 

”I’m really sorry, but they offered me a job over at Popular Mechanics and I know it’s not gonna be the same I mean there ain’t gonna be any cool mustangs to work with but it’s decent pay and… well, sorry Dean, but no one’s gonna come throwing bottles.”

” _Shit_ , no, Joey, I’m sorry. Don’t apologize. We’re– I’m gonna miss you, kid.”

”Yeah, Imma miss you too, Dean, you know more about cars than anyone.”

”… Thanks.”

”Stay in touch?”

”Yeah, of course.”

They hung up. 

Dean went to the others and sat back down. 

”What was that all about, Dean?” Gabriel asked immediately.

” _Gabriel_.” Cas sighed. 

”That was my doctor,” Dean said, ”I am deathly allergic to sugar-substitutes and can no longer be within fifty feet of anything in the shape of a hard-boiled sweet, you’re gonna have to leave.” 

Gabriel threw a hard-boiled sweet at him, laughing. Then he bent down to pick it up again. Dean caught Cas’ look across the table, threw him a lopsided smile and tried to put ’I’m okay’ in it. Cas didn’t look convinced, but he nodded slightly. 

Gabriel came back up, eyes twinkling.

There was no way Dean was going to get up the courage to ask today. It would have to wait a little longer. Right now this was fine. They sat there, the three of them, for a while longer. The ache in Dean’s chest didn’t go away. When they finally got up to leave, as they all actually had actual jobs to do, Dean took one step – well, one failed attempt at a step – and fell over like a house of cards. 

Gabriel burst into maniacal laughter. The son of a bitch had tied Dean’s shoelaces together. Like he was seven years old. When had he even had the time to– Dean felt a lot better about the entire day once he’d got to throw his tied together shoes at Gabriel’s head as the dickface fled the scene, still laughing uncontrollably. 

Cas threw him out for being disruptive which, okay, that was fair.

 

* * *

 

 **Dean** : Joey quit

 **Sam** : shit what’s dad gonna do?

 **Dean** : I’ll find someone else when I get back

 **Sam** : that’s not what I asked bro

 

* * *

 

 

**38 DAYS**

He parked outside of Taste Buds with his heart pounding in his chest. He’d already texted Cas, knew he was off shift by now and didn’t have any plans for the afternoon. Before he could get out of the car, Cas opened the passenger door and smiled down at him.

”Hello, Dean.” He said, ”Are we off to get more car parts today? It’s been a while since we did that.”

”Uh, no actually.” Dean rubbed his neck awkwardly. Cas must have heard whatever it was in his voice because he got in the car and cocked his head to the side, watching Dean curiously, and perhaps with some worry thrown in there as well. ”Actually I’ve been meaning to tell you, uhm. The Impala is sort of, I mean it’s not done but it’s sort of getting there and well I wanted to know if you’d… want to see it? Come with me back to the manor?”

Understanding flooded Cas’ eyes and he nodded. That was the thing about Cas. He got it. He understood that this wasn’t just a ’hey wanna come over and hang out’ or even a ’hey come look at the car I’ve been working on and tell me I’m awesome’. He understood without Dean having to tell him that this was… This was Dean. 

”I would love that.” Cas said. ”Now?”

Dean grinned at him **. ”** Yeah. Now.”

 

* * *

 

Of course, they didn’t get further than Dean getting out of the car to open the garage door (there was apparently some kind of automated system but it seemed to have a very personal grudge against Dean and after the first few weeks of Dean backing up and approaching the door in various intervals and with no sign of success he’d said fuck it and just did it manually. Like a normal person) before Talbot found them. If Dean didn’t know better he would think that the man could literally smell it when Dean needed the least to be interrupted and used it against him. Actually, he didn’t know better. That was probably exactly what was happening here.

”Dean Bean! You have brought a friend, how marvelous!” Talbot threw his arms out in delight as he strode towards them. Dean groaned loudly. 

He leaned close to Cas’ ear: ”I’m sorry, I’m so sorry about this.” He muttered and then plastered on a grin for Talbot. ”Hey… Jimmy. What’s up? We were just going to–”  
”And who’s _this_?” Talbot grinned at Cas and shook his hand vigorously. Dean kind of wanted to put a hand on Cas’ shoulder so it wouldn’t jump out of it’s socket. Or he kind of just wanted to put his hand on Cas. The line wasn’t super clear anymore. ”Oh my, you found yourself a _treat_ , didn’t you, Dean?”

”Uhm.” Dean said.

”It’s nice to meet you, you must be James Talbot.” Cas said gruffly, but generally taking the appearance of the suit and the monocle and the… strangeness in good stride. ”I’m–”

”And he’s _American_!” Talbot shone like a beacon. ”Leave it to Dean to find the _third_ American up in this joint and shack up with him! I’m proud of you, kid.” He winked at Dean. Who now mostly wished he was dead. 

”Jimmie, please we’re not–” He trailed off, because he just didn’t have the energy for this right now.

”I imagine there are quite a lot of Americans in this country.” Cas said, seemingly completely unfazed. If anyone was going to be in the face of this character, it would be him. ”I’m certain even several of them purchase large estates and spend their free time playing golf and collecting cars.”

Dean gaped. Was Cas being cheeky or was this just genuine observation? That was the million dollar question wasn't it. 

Talbot stared at Cas with wide eyes for a couple of seconds, and then he burst out laughing.

”Oh, man.” He wheezed out. ”Oh, man, you found a live one. Welcome to the fun house, man, I never did catch your name?”

”Castiel Novak, sir.” It seemed he found his manners again. 

”Cassie, fantastic.” Talbot slapped Cas on the arm and Dean grimaced. _Cassie?_ That was the worst nickname he’d ever heard. In what universe did Cas look like a _Cassie?_ ”Come inside, meet Eames!” He started dragging Cas along with him, and Cas looked back at Dean in alarm. He hurried after them, miming more apologies and shaking his head in distress. Cas, still being pulled along across the gravel, gave Dean a little smile.

Dean almost fell over. 

Inside, Talbot gave them the same tour Dean had gotten the first day he arrived. Cas was suitably impressed by the angel babies on the ceiling, and when he saw the espresso machine he gave a _hum_ that to Talbot probably sounded impressed but to Dean sounded straight up condescending. Hah. He knew that machine was nothing in comparison to Cas’ hands. 

Eames walked in to see them standing over it and immediately his face looked like he’d just smelled something incredibly nasty. 

”I see sir has found yet another young man to fawn upon.” He drawled, sniffing indignantly.

Dean leaned close to Cas’ ear, ”Heads up, don’t question the tea if you value your sanity.”

Cas turned to give him a strange look, which placed his face absolutely way too close to Dean’s with the way they were standing. Dean pulled back quickly. 

”Awww, Eames, come one,” Talbot put a hand on his chest in mock-hurt, ”you know you’re the only one for me, they’re just admiring your expresso machine, aren’t you boys?” The last bit was very pointed and Cas and Dean hurried to nod.

Eames threw the machine a look so dirty Dean felt the urge to clean it’s filters. Or give it a hug, whichever was less weird.

”I would _prefer_ not to have it placed in category with any of my valued possessions, _if_ you don’t mind, sir.” Eames produced a handkerchief from somewhere and started aggressively wiping things.

”But Eames!” Talbot said urgently, ”we picked it out _together_ –”

”May I remind sir of the rather insistent protests–”

Cas turned to murmur into Dean’s ear and goosebumps erupted all over his neck. 

”Are they together?” He asked.

Dean laughed. Then he stopped laughing and looked at Cas’ earnest expression. Then he laughed a little again. Then he stopped and looked between Eames and Talbot and the way Eames was dusting the counter top and the way Talbot was leaning all up in his space and being colossally in the way. He turned to Cas.

”I… I do not know.” 

He let the thought run through his head a little more, decided that he didn’t want to know, and wrapped his fingers around Cas’ elbow.

”Come on, let’s escape before they remember we’re here.”

They went up to Dean’s room. 

”I’m barely in here except to sleep.” Dean said and wandered over to the bed. It was still fucking gigantic. Cas stepped carefully around, looking at the furniture and out the windows. It was not like Dean had any personal stuff in here. His clothes were in the drawer, sure, because Eames put them there when he’d washed them. (and not washing his own clothes was still weird as hell). He had his phone charger plugged into the wall next to the bed and a little pile of his and Cas’ books on the bedside table but that was it. It was nothing like Cas’ apartment, which screamed his name wherever Dean turned. This was just where he was staying at the moment. It was way more Talbot than Dean, with the jacuzzi and the… the fucking polar bear rug.

”I keep meaning to ask Talbot about that.” He said and gestured towards it. Cas regarded it with an unreadable look on his face. ”What kind of guy has a dead polar bear on the floor of his guest bedroom, am I right? It has to be five different kinds of illegal.”

”Actually,” Cas said and looked up at him. ”Polar bear-hunting is very common in the United Kingdom. The season is usually between December and March.”

Dean stared at him in silence.

Cas stared back.

”You… _fucker!_ ” He gasped. ”You sarcastic little shit, you _have_ been joking this _whole_ time you dick, I’ve felt so bad for laughing!” He moved over to punch him in the shoulder but faltered and swayed on his heels a little.

A mischievous little grin spread across Cas’ face. His eyes twinkled.

”Well, you were so worried about insulting me.” He said, his voice low and rumbly like he was trying to hold back laughter. ”It was very cute.”

Dean laughed once and shook his head slowly, staring at the little twitch at the corner of Cas’ mouth. All those times over the last few months where he hadn’t been sure if he could laugh, all the times where Cas had delivered comments so straight faced there was just _no way_ he wasn’t being serious…

Dean laughed again. Then he reached out, placed his hand on Cas’ neck, and pulled him in for a kiss. 

Cas moved into him seamlessly. Dean wasn’t sure what he had been going for exactly it’s not like he’d had a _plan_ (he’d had a million plans, a million ways this moment could go, a million places where it could happen, Taste ’Buds, on a roadtrip, in the Impala, in Cas’ apartment, in a bar he’d drag him to at some point–) but what he ended up with… what he ended up with was something so soft and goddamn tender it was making him shiver. Cas’s lips were a little chapped and a lot soft against his and his fingers were spasming slightly against Dean’s chest and he couldn’t breathe because this, this was what it had all been building towards and it was simultaneously the most reckless and the most painstakingly thought out decision he’d ever made and _Castiel_. Beautiful, genuine, _funny,_ Cas was kissing him as if he was trying to remember every fucking second. Or maybe that was Dean projecting, because goddamn he did not want to forget a single moment of this because this (lips, hands, fabric, skin, stubble scraping against his bottom lip–) He genuinely thought this was as good as life could get, it had to be but then Cas whispered Dean’s name against his lips and nope, this was better. Grabbing onto Cas and wrapping his arm tightly around his waist until they were pressed together as tight as they could be and Cas moved his hands over Dean’s chest to wrap around his neck and end up in his hair that… _that_ must be the absolute best life could ever get. He wanted to yell, but all he did was dig his fingers into the base of Cas’ skull and kiss him again, and again, and again. Kiss him soft and then firm and then desperately.

When he moved back, it was only to look at Cas’ face, to know for sure that this dizziness, this intense pounding in his chest and buzzing in his skin was to be found there as well, to know that he wasn’t alone in this, that it wasn't just him falling– and then in a surge of happiness press the tips of his fingers to Cas’ lips, feel them burn against his skin. He had to move them quickly out of the way to make place for their lips meeting again. 

”Uhm,” He managed to say and his voice was so scratchy and breathy he could hardly recognise it. Then he lost track of what he was going to say because Cas pressed his lips against Dean’s cheek and dragged his fingernails over his neck at the same time and Dean had to pull him back and kiss him as deeply and as softly as he could possibly manage. 

”What were you going to say?” Cas mumbled against his lips.

”I don’t give a shit.” Dean breathed. He could feel Cas smiling against him, and it was insane. It was all insane that he was standing on a fake polar bear rug in a mansion in England wrapped in the arms of a man who had made him feel things he thought he would never have.

He wanted this to last forever.


	11. She Sees the Open Road Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Impala gets to see the open road again, and there are more emotions than the average adult human male can handle. Good thing Dean is above average.

**38 DAYS** (still)

Dean wouldn’t say he was a slut. The word carried a lot of misogynistic weight and while he enjoyed sex with strangers, and had quite a bit of it, it was actually a lot less than most people in his vicinity thought. Less than he made them think. It was good front to have, a safe one, to be the type of guy to follow someone home and make sure he was out of the door by lunchtime. People expected less of you that way. Less intimacy, less commitment, less conversation. So yeah, he’d had quite a bit of sex in his time. It was usually good, often great. This though?

For christ’s sake, Cas was still wearing his trench coat. Indoors and in the middle of summer who was this guy anyway, sure it was pretty much always raining but dear whatever fucking power there was in the universe Dean wanted it off him. They weren’t even lying down. He vaguely remembered grabbing on to Cas and pulling him towards the bed, mainly because he couldn’t think of anything better than Cas full on lying on top of him at that moment. They’d gotten sidetracked halfway through. (”You were going to say something, it might have been important.” Cas had said, or something like it, his words were a little muffled because he had Dean’s bottom lip between his teeth for some of it. ”It probably wasn’t” Dean had answered. ”You should write things down,” Cas’ hand was gripping his shoulder and pulling a little as his collar, ”your memory seems dreadful.” Dean had laughed and it made him lightheaded.) Now he was sort of half-reclining, leaning on one elbow and gripping the back of Cas’ neck the his other hand, maybe a little tighter than was technically necessary. Cas was leaning over him. One knee on the bed between Dean’s spread knees, holding himself up with one hand on the covers and holding Dean up with one arm around his back. He was above and around and his coat fell open to frame them both. It was too much, and not enough. Dean was breathing him in and tasting him; he was taking up the entire goddamn world. 

That was the thing. That’s what it had never been before. ”You are,” he mumbled, probably, ”I don’t know what you are.”

”I could give you a list,” Cas said, and tightened his arm a little. All the breath flew out of Dean’s lungs, and then he laughed. Cas started kissing his jaw instead, which was very polite. How the hell did he have the mental faculties left to make jokes right now, there was a lot of stuff going on in Dean’s head and none of them were complete sentences, much less humor drier than a… well drier than something. Dean couldn’t fucking think of anything dry because there were little electric thrills going down his spine because this was _Cas_. 

In a moment of insane courage he had never needed to do anything like this before, he let go of Cas’ neck and grabbed his ass instead. He came pretty close to actually becoming religious in that moment. For a second, Cas faltered and Dean worried he’d made a mistake, but then there was a stutter in Cas’ breathing and they were kissing again– Dean could have lived the rest of his life with those lips pressed against his. His hips came a little closer and Dean arched up and there was too much goddamn space between them.

”An ass that could launch a thousand ships was a fucking understatement,” Dean breathed, a genuine miracle as there seemed to be absolutely no air left in the room.

”I’m no Helen of Troy.”

”Good, Paris was a wimp.”

If he’d known referencing the classics would get Cas to look at him with wonder in his eyes, and then suck on his bottom lip, he would have done it a long time ago.

Dean decided there was a lot of unnecessary fabric in between his hand and Cas’ ass. He started pushing the coat aside, almost losing his balance. Cas gave a questioning little huff that Dean was going to remember literally until the day he died.

”We gotta get this off,” he said, reveling in running his mouth over soft lips and rough stubble. Who could ever need anything other than this. Except, Cas was no longer kissing him back which, firstly, _what no_ and secondly, _what’s wrong_. He froze too, pulled back a little.

Cas has flushed cheeks and swollen lips, which made Dean want to beat himself over the head with an anvil because how else could he deal with that sight, but his eyes were (apart from goddamn blue) shuttered. 

”Uhm,” is what Dean said. There was a cold spreading over his skin. He was still touching Cas’ ass. In the interest of not ruining what had up until this moment been one of the absolute best moments of his life, he moved it (totally casually) to the small of his back. ”Too much?” 

Cas didn’t answer immediately. Or at all, really. He stayed where he was, looming over Dean all soft and scratchy and gorgeous. He was looking at Dean as if he’d asked him to take off his armor in the middle of battle. 

”Too… fast?” Dean asked. He sounded a little weak, even to his own ears. He really wanted to lean in for another kiss but didn’t dare to. Cas’ eyelids fluttered a little. He took a shaky breath. Then he leaned in, kissed Dean once, lightly, and moved away. That kiss was a greater relief than Dean was ready to admit. 

They sat next to each other at the foot of the bed in silence for a little while. Dean’s heart was still racing. It took every single ounce of effort in him not to fidget. 

”I didn’t mean to–” he started.

”Dean.” Cas reached out and wound their fingers together. ”I am… not sure.”

When it came to mixed messages, this was a good example. Cas’ hand was firm in his.

”About me?” It made sense. For all the usual reasons. He’d come to this place grease stained and lost and even when he wasn’t one of them he was the other. All he had going for him was an alcoholic father and a car shop to keep afloat; a house that was falling apart; a brother who’d gotten out; torn clothes and bottles of beer that made him think that really, what would he become if not a carbon copy of his own father. Drunk, miserable, alone, dragging down everyone around him. People who deserved better.

He didn’t realise he was pulling his hand back until Cas grasped his fingers tight and tugged it back.

” _Dean_ ,” he said. ”I don’t know how I can explain this to you. I enjoy your company, I enjoy your sense of humour, your integrity, I– I enjoy you. I enjoy being with you.”

Dean was torn between wanting to leave as quickly as possible to never return and… well he wasn’t really sure what else. 

”I am not sure… this is not a mistake.”

The skin of Dean’s hand was rough and cracked. Dark little lines and shadows crawled over it where engine grease would never quite wash out. There were little shiny reddish spots where Cas had burned his fingers on the coffee maker or the stove, otherwise his hands were soft: used for gripping pencils and books, having gripped weapons but never should have. 

After a little while, they both laid down. Side to side, hands clasped on the covers between them, feet on the faux polar bear rug on the floor. The crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling sent little dancing points of light across the walls, reflecting the sun shining through the windows. When he turned to look at Cas, Cas was already looking back at him. When he moved closer, Cas met him halfway. Getting to know the touch of his lips, the way his breath left him and warmed the air between them, the way they tugged and caught at each other and then went slick and easy and had to press closer to really feel, it was a privilegie. 

A little later Dean asked, ”do you wanna go for a drive?” and Cas nodded.

 

* * *

 

They went down to the garage, Dean pulling Cas into an alcove when he heard Talbot’s voice. While they waited for him to pass, unseen, their lips met again, and they smiled in the shadows. 

Dean was nervous. 

”Is the car indoors?” Cas murmured, looking at the heavy wooden doors along the corridor.

Dean smiled, ”tell me about it,” he said, ”but no, Talbot is just allergic to the outdoors so he has corridors leading everywhere.”

They were still holding hands. He didn’t think he’d ever held anyone’s hand for so long before. Cas made appropriate appreciative noises when they passed Talbot’s many cars. Dean didn’t say anything. He might have been holding his breath. Trying to seem casual, he shouldered the door to the inner room open and gestured vaguely to the Impala, saying ”well, there she is.” wishing with a twinge that he’d… cleaned up, or something. At least closed the hood and put the tools away, cleaned the dust off her, tried to make her shine as much as is possible without the enamel. He scratched the back of his neck. Perhaps he should have waited until he was completely finished. Not only until it was drivable but until is was shiny and polished and… not broken. 

Finally he mustered up the courage to look at Cas. Cas was… just looking at it. Regarding it. Not like he’s vaguely nodded at the other cars but as if he was trying to figure it out. 

Dean pulled his hand out of Cas’ and started gathering stuff up with jerky movements. ”It’s a little messy in here sorry about that” he was saying as he tried to figure out where he usually kept his wrench and then just sort of put it somewhere. ”It’s not done, you know, lots to do still.” He struggled to close the hood, it caught a little halfway and a lump rose in Dean’s throat, ”whoops, yeah, as you see, it’s– yeah,” he finally got it closed, started rubbing a thumb over a little scratch in the paint, ”gonna redo the paint, obviously, wouldn’t be caught dead letting her be seen like this–”

”Dean?” Cas said. He looked up. Cas was giving him a small, soft smile. It wasn’t pity, not quite, it was something else. Something like understanding. Something like knowing what unconventional armor was like and how easy it was to cling to it. How hard it was to expose it for what it was. 

”Yeah?”

”She’s beautiful.” 

He leaned heavily on her. As usual, she was solid when the floor was spinning. ”Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

Cas helped him push her out of the garage. Dean was babbling about the engine and Cas was, dear lord, actually listening intently. And he’d taken off his coat to push, it was lying in the backseat and Cas’ biceps were flexing a little under his shirt. It was nice. 

”I haven’t actually driven her up until now, I know she’ll start and go and stop but it might not be the smoothest ride you’ve ever had,” Dean said as she was outside and under the light of the actual sun. He wondered how long it had been since she had seen anything other than the four walls of that room. ”There’s a very real risk she’ll break down in the middle of nowhere and, I mean, I’m bringing tools, but if you don’t feel like standing around waiting by the side of the road then–”

”Dean?”

”T-That is my name, yes.”

”I have faith in you.” 

Dean knew he was nodding too much and that he should stop.

He went back in and packed up a toolbox, taking the chance to stop and breathe for a second. He was feeling as if the world had gone strange suddenly. Stranger than it had already been. When he came back out Cas was by the Impala, stroking a careful hand along the roof and saying something Dean couldn’t hear. He made sure to really crunch the gravel when he walked up. Cas smiled at him when he put the tools in the trunk and moved to the driver’s side. Cas got in on the other side, and the way he opened and closed the door carefully, almost reverently, made something twinge inside of Dean. 

It all fell apart once he was actually in the car.

”Shit,” he said, hand on the key in the ignition, leather against his back, familiar gaspedal under his foot. He was taller than last time. He’d been a teenager, hands grasping the steering wheel confidently, Sam sleeping next to him, music blasting from the radio – the radio, he hadn’t fixed the radio yet, but that was a detail thing, that was for later – his hands had been smaller, less scarred, cleaner. His head had been clearer. His shoulders lighter, his father less, his guilt less woven into his skin. Life had been so goddamn un-messy. ”Shit,” he said again, and put his head on the steering wheel. 

Cas didn’t say anything, but Dean could feel his eyes on him.

”Sorry, I don’t know why this is so hard for me–”

”Of course it’s hard. Come here.” And then Cas was pulling lightly at his collar and pressing their lips together. Dean almost laughed.

”Never thought I’d be kissing a boy in this car,” he said, and Cas stroked his jaw.

”I’m fairly sure I’m a man. I should really give you that list we talked about.” 

Dean laughed. He turned the ignition. 

It was a rocky, jostling start, but then again, what wasn’t. And ever when Cas returned his hands to fold in his lap, Dean could feel them on his neck and on his wrist. Through his entire body, he could feel the Impalas engine purr. 

 

* * *

 

They drove, and they didn’t speak much. Cas was looking out the window at the sprawling hills, or looking at Dean with steady eyes. Dean was– well, Dean was driving the Impala. Nine years. Nine years was more than a third of his life. No wonder his hands felt too big for the steering wheel, or his body too heavy to carry. She did though, she carried him as well as she had when he was seventeen, when he was twelve, when he was six. 

They’d bought the garage and sold the Impala on the same day. Well, John had. They’d found an apartment to rent, an attic room on top of an old dry cleaners where at sudden moments during the day, the floor would vibrate quietly as the machines started up below. Sam had been enrolled in yet another school. He wasn’t speaking to John at the time, which was not much less awkward in a one bedroom apartment than it was when they were sleeping in a car. Sam was starting to burst out of his clothes. His jeans ended several inches further up his ankles than they were really meant to, and Dean had opened his copy of slaughterhouse five, taken the well pressed bills out from between the pages, and dragged him to go buy new ones. They had technically been meant to go to school books, but the school in this part of Kansas was one of those ’we’re-here-to-learn-and-support-each-other’-ones and they’d had a bunch of old textbooks no one was using lying around. Sam had been humiliated to receive them. All the humility had gone out of Dean some time ago. Well, not all of it maybe. He wasn’t about to let his little brother walk around flashing his ankles like he was flirting with some eighteenth century duke. So they’d gone to buy jeans. 

When they got back, John was hanging up the phone. 

”Good news, boys,” he had said while Dean was letting Sam lean half of his long legged calf weight on him trying to tow off his shoes without tipping over. It got Sam’s hair in his nose, and all Dean had been able to think was he hoped Sam would get used to his height before he either injured himself or broke Dean’s nose. ”we’ll be staying here. Indefinitely.”  
” _Really?_ ” Sam’s head had snapped up so fast he actually would have fallen over if Dean didn’t hold him up. Then he seemed to remember he wasn’t speaking to his father and schooled his expression back into mild teenage bitchiness. ”I mean,” he said as if that wasn’t a dead giveaway, and folded his arms tightly over his chest. Dean hadn’t been able to help but smile at him, he was so gangly. And he only had one shoe on. He would have ruffled his hair but it wasn’t worth it since Sam grew tall enough to actually have a rat’s chance in hell to do something about it. ”Really…?” He added in a very unconvincing bitchy voice. He was only wearing one goddamn shoe. It was so fucking adorable. 

”Yeah, I just made an investment, I’m part owner of a garage.” He had looked so proud. And it’s not like Dean didn’t know he was doing it for their sake, to give Sam a chance to finish school. It’s not like he didn’t know it was with good intentions. 

Sam and Dean had looked at each other in surprise. John had gone over to the kitchen part of the room, gotten a beer out of the fridge, and cracked it open. He had said at another night in that apartment, that the best part of having a real place to live was being able to drink cold beer whenever you wanted. 

”Er,” Dean had started, ”how?”

”I overheard the owner talking about it at the bar yesterday, he’d lost his chief mechanic and stuff was looking a little bleak, so I bought my way in. We’ll work on the cars, and I got 40 percent ownership of the place. Been making phone calls all afternoon, it’s all settled.” He rummaged through a drawer and came up with a few crumpled bills. ”We should celebrate, I’ll buy you boys a drink.”

Sam and Dean looked at each other again. Sam was barely holding back excitement, but the same question lingered in his eyes that was pressing on the inside of Dean’s skull.

”No, dad, I mean… how did you afford that?”

John hadn’t looked up, ”sold the car, Impalas are worth a hell of a lot of money with the right buyer.”

Dean didn't think he’d ever forget the way his blood seemed to stop in his veins. The floor falling out from under his feet. No steady foundation, no safe place left to lean on. Sam had tugged on his sleeve, once, hard. Maybe it was an aborted attempt to take his hand. Little Sammy had started to think he was too old for stuff like that. 

”What.” He remembered saying. And ”why?”

”You remember my old buddy Jimmy? Just got in contact with him, he was eager to take it, and for a buck-load lemme tell you.” 

”No, dad,” Dean had said, and he could sort of tell his voice was getting louder, ”that’s not what I asked, I asked _why_.” 

John had met his eyes steadily. ”You raising your voice, son?”

Dean had dropped his eyes, ”no, sir.”

It’s not like he didn’t know it was for their sake. It’s not like he didn’t know he did it with good intentions. John just hadn’t known. He hadn’t understood. Hadn’t seen that his sons had made a home that was more than a place where the beer was cold. Hadn’t seen their scratched initials – good fucking thing or he would have killed them both – or Sam’s textbooks under the seat, or the dice or the action men or the Vonnegut books or the way Dean’s neck had gotten so used to the weird angle of sleeping in the back seat, that pillows were too soft; beds were too even. 

Sam had slept next to Dean that night, all jagged elbows and bruising knees. 

”I’m glad we’re staying,” Dean whispered into the dark. John was snoring, he wouldn't hear them, ”you can finish school.”

”Yeah…” Sam had answered, ”I can’t believe he sold it without even telling you. Without even _asking_ you–”

”It’s not up to me, Sammy. It’s his car.”

”It’s our car,” He had muttered.

”Not anymore.” 

Sam was a good brother. He pretended not to notice that however hard Dean clenched his jaw, he couldn’t quite stop the wetness in his eyes. He did shuffle closer though, and fell asleep drooling on Dean’s shoulder.

Nine years. In nine years Dean had never found a home like the leather on those seats. He’d bought a house and moved out of that one bedroom as soon as he dared after Sam left. Without his little brother there was no reason for Dean to stay. Every day, he went to work at the garage. Every day, he pocketed what money he could. He dropped out of school, and John nodded silently. When Cooper sold the rest of his share to John and moved to Florida, they rebranded and became Winchester and Son. John had been really proud and honestly, Dean had too. There was his name on something, there was the work of his hands being celebrated. Then there was flasks showing up in the office. Then there was John leaving more and more of the actual work to him and trying to talk to clients when he was swaying on his feet. Then there was Sam on the phone, voice deeper every day, muttering that Dean could do better. As if Dean had what Sam had. As if Dean had finished high school and had any outlook other than what John could offer him. As if John could drag himself up the stairs to the attic room and into the shower, or hide the bottles from himself.

Nine years, and here, on a different continent across an ocean, for a moment, for a couple of glorious hours, he was home.

 

* * *

 

His phone buzzed, and he started saying ”can you check that?” but before he finished Cas hand was digging into his front pocket and he would like to say he didn’t giggle– actually he was going to say he didn’t giggle. He did not giggle. Nor squirm. 

”It’s from Sam,” Cas said, ”it says: finally got the right size, exclamation mark, exclamation mark…” Dean’s heart sank. ”And there’s a picture of an engagement ring.” He could hear the question in Cas’ voice, and also the slight note of _I’m not going to make you tell me_. 

”Right, okay,” he said, nodding too much again. ”That’s– that’s great. Er– you could send something back, if you like. Just, ’that’s great’ or something.”

”Are you sure?” Cas asked.

Dean was probably the worst brother in the world. ”He’s getting married.”

Cas said nothing and Dean kept driving. 

”I’m happy for him,” Dean said after a little while. 

”You don’t have to be.”

Dean laughed a little breathlessly. ”No, I am, I really am, it’s just–” _just what? Just that this was his little brother, just Dean had blinked and Sam had grown up, just that last time Dean was in this car Sam had been next to him, blinking up at him with wide eyes, and now he was in California, going to be a lawyer, going to be a husband, going, going, going, and Dean was right the fuck where he started._ ”I don’t really know when he stopped needing me.”

It was too much fucking honesty, and his eyes were blurring a little so he stopped the car by the side of the road. The Impala, the fucking Impala. It was supposed to be like home, coming back to her, but what the fuck was home when Sam wasn’t leaning against his shoulder and asking him to explain what magic was. 

”I’m sorry, this is– this is not why I brought you with me.” Dean rubbed both of his hands over his face. Cas put the phone by the gearshift. He was settling in to listen, he was– he was way too good for Dean. The words, when they started, fell and struggled and clawed and ran their way up his throat and over his tongue. He had neither the power to stop them, nor any conscious choice in them. ”My dad was never much of a dad, you know that. He tried, he really did, but after mom died… I did a lot of raising Sam. And it’s not like I was any good at it, I mean, I was either too soft or too hard on him, and I didn’t know anything about applying to college or being picked on. Punching the kids who bullied him apparently wasn’t the right way to go. Dad told me all the time: ’you gotta take care of your brother’, he said, ’you gotta look after Sam, or no one else will’, and I _tried_ but all he wanted was a normal childhood and going to school and making friends. All we did was move around. We slept in this car more than we slept in beds. This fucking car. It’s the only home we ever really had, at least… at least the only home I ever had. ’Cause now he’s in California? He’s got a house, and he’s gonna have a career, and… and a _real family_.” His knuckles hurt where he gripped the steering wheel, and his eyes burned. ”That’s what he called it.” When he laughed, it tore itself out of his chest like a wound, leaving red edges behind. ”A _real family_ … Like all that trying I did meant nothing, like _I mean n_ –” he raised his hand to punch the dashboard but didn’t, couldn’t. ”And dad was always drinking. Is always drinking. Sam is in California and I’m in dad’s garage, cleaning up his messes, picking his broken bottles off the floor and I’m happy to. I _am_ , it’s not like I can just leave him. He’s my _dad_ but god I’m exhausted. And Sam, _Sam_ keeps telling me to leave, to ’get out from under him’, that I ’deserve better’ but I don’t fucking got anything better. I didn’t even finish high school, where would I go? What would I do?”

He wished he could deny crying, but there were some things he couldn’t hide, even from himself.

”At least when I was a kid, I had that. I had ’take care of Sammy’. That’s what I call a job worth doing. I was– I was his whole world. I was his goddamn hero. And now I’m nothing.”

Silence fell over the car and shame trickled into Dean’s skin. 

”I don’t know your brother,” Cas began, ”but I cannot for a second imagine that when he says family, he means a family without you. You need to speak with him about it–”

Dean scoffed and looked away but Cas grasped his wrist, suddenly and tightly–

”If I’ve learned anything in the last few years, Dean, it’s that talking is one of the most difficult and powerful things you can do.”

They looked at each other for a moment.

”You’ve been here for two months. How many times has your brother texted you in that time?”

Dean shrugged, ”pretty much every day I guess.”

Cas smiled and tilted his head to the side. ”You may not be his whole world anymore. But I would wager you’re his brightest star.”

He didn’t notice he was smiling back until the smile slipped off Cas’ face, and was replaced with something thoughtful and a little pinched. 

”I hope you realise,” he murmured, squinting a little in that way he had, as if he were forming the thought as he spoke it, ”that your life doesn’t have to be going somewhere. It does not even have to have meaning in the fatalistic sense of the word. The fact that you are living, that you are walking on this earth, the people you meet…” Cas fingers touched his cheekbone, and seemed unlikely to finish that thought, though Dean ached to hear it, ”I think we have both been confusing loyalty with living to make someone else happy.”

 

* * *

 

Something Cas had said was nagging at the edge of his brain when he drove back from Cas’ apartment. He'd dropped Cas off and hadn't even followed him to his door. Was that the kind of guy he was now? Someone who didn't even try to follow the person he was attracted to into bed? Apparently so. Also the kind of guy who'd spent most of the afternoon crying and spilling his guts to the person he was attracted to. Never thought he'd do  _that_. And Cas... Cas had said he wasn't sure whether the two of them was a mistake or not. Honestly there had been a lot of mixed messages and emotions in the last twelve hours and it didn’t seem to be slowing down.

Sam… He was going to call Sam tomorrow. Tonight though. Tonight he was dealing with something else.

He walks into the booze jungle, head spinning. Talbot is there, carefully wiping down wine bottles with a rag as if he didn’t have a perfectly useful butler upstairs. Who was apparently useful in more than one way. Not that Dean wanted to think about that. He was planning on doing something a little less dramatic than having a confrontation in the basement, but what came out of his mouth was ”you’re keeping me here, aren’t you?”

Talbot looked at him in confusion, and then looked around him self with alarm, ”oh no,” he said, ”did my wine cellar turn into a prison cell again? I _hate_ when that happens.”

Dean rolled his eyes. He was to wrung out, feeling too raw, to have any patience with Talbot’s sense of humour.

”Cut it out, please, Jimmy.” Talbot looked a little surprised. ”I’ve been all over this godforsaken place, talking to mechanics and car enthusiasts. Any one of them could have fixed the Impala, no questions asked. You didn’t need to fly me out here. And you damn well didn’t need to drag me out of the garage, take me to car shows, encourage me to do anything else but work on the car– it’s like you don’t actually want me to fix it. The closer I get, the more you try to distract me.”

Talbot put back the wine bottle he was holding, he was looking suddenly slow and serene. 

("For someone who is paying you to fix a car," Cas had said, when the conversation turned to whether or not Talbot and Eames were doing the dirty on the espresso machine, and how much of an annoying little shit he was, for a person who was old enough to be Dean's father. "He does not seem very interested in letting you work on the car." Dean had laughed. Then he'd stopped laughing. Then he'd laughed again. Then he'd said "son of a bitch.")

”I’m just asking you why, Jimmy. I just want to know why I’m here.”

Talbot sat down in the closest armchair. After a second, he gestured for Dean to sit down too. ”I– uh…” His voice had lost all of it’s cheeriness, all of the unique teasing Jimmy-ness Dean had grown used to in the last two months. ”I haven’t been completely honest with you, kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all the lovely people who are sticking with this train wreck of a WIP.


	12. What Espresso Machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean is as okay and as not-okay as he's ever been in his life.

**38 DAYS (still, still)**

Dean sat down. Waited. Talbot didn’t speak for a very long moment, one which stretched like a spring. Where he did speak, still he was this strange new version of himself. Not like he used to be when Dean was a kid, not really. He had been a grinning showman even then, except his monocle had been a leather jacket and his suit had been ripped jeans. Now he was still in a new sort of way. The only way he moved was the quick tapping of one finger against the dark red leather of the armchair. 

”I’m not sure how to explain myself, kid–”

”Just tell me the goddamn truth, for once.”

Talbot shot him a look, and if he had been sixteen, he would have been chastened for acting out against an adult. (He would never imagine speaking to his father this way, not for a second, even now). However he was old enough, and rubbed raw enough, that he couldn’t care less what kind of language Talbot was expecting him to use. Or what respect he thought he was owed. 

”I asked for you, specifically… because I needed to see how you were doing.”

Dean scoffed.

”It’s true, Dean. I was worried.”

He shook his head and smiled, ”Worried? Jimmy, we haven’t seen each other in ten years, we haven’t had _contact_ in ten years, why the hell would you be worried about me?”

Talbot looked steadily at him. ”Because I know John,” he said. The smile fell off of Dean’s face. His skin, already rubbed raw, started stinging. He could feel that heavy hand on his shoulder as clearly as if it actually was there. If he could, he would have looked away. ”And I spoke to him. I asked him about you.”

Dean looked away. Stared at the rows upon rows of alcohol lining the shelves. He wanted to grab a bottle. Grab five. His father would have loved it down here. 

”I know you don’t remember, Dean, but you were a brilliant kid,” a little smile ghosted the side of Talbot’s mouth but Dean looked away again. He didn’t want to hear this. If this was tv, he would have duct taped Talbots mouth together just to keep from hearing it but, well, he didn’t have duct tape on him. ”I know you think Sam is the smart one, you said so yourself first night you got here, remember? Bragged about him like he was your kid, which… well. I can see how that happened. John did the same when we spoke. So proud that Sammy was going to be a lawyer, he always was the smart one, after all, but… Dean. You were a brilliant kid.”

Dean wondered if the ringing in his ears might actually drown out the words soon, maybe if he bashed his head against the floor he would pass out.

”You were fixing cars when you were nine. _Nine_ , Dean. You were quick and witty and incredibly emotionally astute. The way you took care of Sam… Always stole his books, you did,” there was a smile there now, Dean could hear it, ”hid and read them in secret. Pretended you hated them after the fact. It was okay for Sam to be smart but why weren’t you allowed to be, Dean?”

After a short pause, Dean realised Talbot actually expected him to answer that. He got up and grabbed a bottle from the rack. He wasn’t sure what it was, could have been worth a fortune for all he knew, but he pulled the cork out and took a deep drag. Enjoyed the way it burned in his throat. Whiskey, of some kind then. 

”I don’t know what you’re talking about, Talbot, I’m insanely smart.” He said, staring at nothing.

”Yeah, you are. And when you were a kid, I thought, fine. He’ll grow a little older, he’ll stop trying to hard to mould himself into something different– but then I spoke to John. And I asked him, ’so how’s Dean? What’s Dean doing? Studying, working, traveling? What passion has Dean found that can take him somewhere and fill him to the brim and give him an outlet for all that brilliance in him? In what way is Dean Winchester changing the world?’” 

Dean gripped the bottle so hard his hand started shaking. He knew he could just walk away. He could leave this conversation, grab a car, grab the Impala, and drive away. Nothing was actually holding him there. He could just… go. _Go where_ , Sam’s voice whispered in his ear. He stayed where he was. 

”And John said, ’oh, Dean? He’s working in the garage.’ And there’s nothing wrong with being a mechanic, you know I am one at heart, and maybe you are too. A fixer. But I couldn’t understand how that was all he had to say.”

Talbot stood up. He walked over. Dean didn’t notice, not until Talbot’s hand landed on his shoulder. He flinched, and the hand fell away. 

”I know I… overstepped. That I technically had no right–”

”You’re goddamn right you didn’t.” He took another deep gulp form the bottle. Talbot wasn’t hurt, but Dean wanted him to be. What gave him the right, what gave him the goddamn right–

”Give me the bottle, kid.” Talbot’s hand was open and ready. He wasn’t reaching for it, wasn’t trying to take it. He was just holding his hand in the air, palm up, waiting. The skin was rough. The same lines of grease that never quite came out, no matter how much you scrubbed, the same calluses where the skin had rubbed against a wrench enough to build a little armor of it’s own. A couple of extra layers to protect what’s soft and vulnerable beneath. Dean handed him the bottle. To prove to himself that he could. Then he clenched his fists as hard as he could. 

Talbot put it away. ”I couldn’t leave you there,” he said, ”I know it’s been a long time, but I loved you kids when you were little, and I wanted to give you… a chance at something else. A taste of something else.”

Dean thought about Cas’ mouth, of his smile beneath Dean’s lips.

”I know you think there isn’t a lot to you,” Talbot kept barreling on, with no regard for the bile rising in Dean’s throat, ”I wanted to see if maybe I could show you that there is. Always has been. You deserve better than to spend your life hidden behind someone else.” He went to sit again, painfully casual, painfully relaxed. ”You’re right. I have been trying to keep you here. You were fixing that car real fast, kid. I wanted you to stick around. Not just ’cause of– … I like you. You were a brilliant kid and you’re a brilliant man. You’re welcome to stay however long you want.”

Dean turned to look at him. Talbot looked steadily back, softer than Dean could really deal with right now. 

”Forever, if you want.”

Dean barked out a laugh. It sounded as hollow as it felt, and the mirth slid away like vapor as quickly as it had come. _Forever_. He rubbed his hands over his face and hoped, hoped for something. He didn't know what, but hope he did. With every cell of his being. 

Talbot wasn’t saying anything else. Perhaps he was done. Perhaps he’d now said all the painful, wrenching things he’d had to say and Dean could leave, could walk away and never think of this moment again.

 _Forever_. What a fucking joke forever was. He’d thought standing in Cas’ arms that he wanted to stay there forever. Wrapped up in warmth, lips against someone who’d only ever spoken good things about him, someone who’d given and given and given and seemed to never run out. He’d wanted the moment to last _forever_. But that was a moment in an emotional high in a story he was living across the sea. If that moment had lasted forever, what would Dean be doing if not running away from the real world, running into a fairytale where all the words he ever heard were filled with love and support. That wasn’t the real world. The real world was waiting for him. 

 _Forever_. Yeah. Right. 

He sat back down next to Talbot. He felt his eyes on the side of his face but couldn’t have turned his head if his life depended on it. 

”I have a question,” he managed to say, Talbot nodded in the corner of his eye, ”if you decided all this, made up your master plan, when you found out I was working for dad… why did you even call him, that day? I get the feeling you weren’t gonna ask him to come here and fix it for you.”

”No, I wasn’t going to do that. I actually… well. I didn’t think it was worth the effort to fix it. I have a lot of cars and the Impala was never the best of them–”

Even now, even here, Dean made a noise in his throat at the very insinuation, irked and annoyed and so bone deep defensive. 

”–but it’s not like I didn’t know that the car was important to you kids. So. I called John to see if he wanted to buy if back off me.”

Dean started laughing. He laughed, and laughed, and laughed. He buried his face in his hands and leaned forward. He couldn’t stop laughing, and shit, maybe he was gonna throw up. It kind of felt like he might throw up. 

”Dean–” Talbot was putting his hands on Dean arm and back and Dean was pushing his away and standing up.

”I gotta, I gotta go,” the laughter was slowly subsiding but he was still shaking with it. His eyes were watering. ”I gotta like, I dunno, take a nap–”

”Dean,” Talbot was frowning at him and oh, now he looked kinda guilty. About fucking time. 

”It’s been a long, fucking day, okay? I’m gonna just to go my room and– and sleep I’ll. I’ll see you later, okay?”

”Alright, Dean. Get some rest.”

”I need a break,” he said, walking away already, still not sure he was going to make it to his floor without vomiting in one of Eames’ vases. ”I need a fucking break.”

He made it to his room, tried locking the door but of course there was no key. Why would there be? His covers were wrinkled. Because that’s where Dean and Cas had been lying, kissing, grabbing– he squeezed his eyes shut. Then he walked to the bed and laid down on top of the covers, he wasn't even looking at the polar bear rug. 

He laid his head on the pillow. Then he sat up again and punched it as hard as he could, two, three times. When he put his head back down, amazingly, despite the aching on every single inch of his skin, despite the churning of his gut and the goddamn wetness in his eyes, the shaking in his fingers… he thought about Cas smile in the Impala. He thought about Cas taking his hand. He thought about Cas standing next to the impala, speaking quietly to her. And he fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

**37 DAYS**

He woke up fully dressed with a small pool of drool under his chin. Groaning, he turned the pillow over and tried to not wake up for just a second longer. If the term emotional hangover had not yet been invented, Dean was about to. His head ached and his skin felt too tight on his body. His chest felt hollow. He didn’t want to go downstairs and risk running into Talbot, didn’t want to face him. What was he supposed to be feeling and thinking right now? He’d been lied to and manipulated and brought here because apparently there wasn’t a single person in his life who wasn’t sticking to the same narrative of him _deserving more_ , and needing to _get out from under_. When they couldn’t see, they couldn’t fucking see the big glaring problem with that: _and then what_. 

He rolled out of bed. Took a shower, changed his clothes. Shaved. When he picked up his phone he had a couple of texts from Sam waiting. Beneath the picture of the engagement ring which, now that he was actually looking at it, was pretty damn gorgeous, there was:

 

 **Sam** : bro??

 **Sam** : blink twice if you’re dead

 **Sam** : if ur dead in a ditch the queen pays for ur funeral ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

 **Sam** : I googled and copy pasted that

 

Dean smiled. He typed out a ’you have zero chill’ because he’d heard Sam say that once, and then ’the ring looks awesome, congrats, I’m calling you later’. 

When he got to the kitchen, Eames was making tea. The espresso machine was nowhere to be found. Eames nodded at him and drawled a ”sir” that Dean chose to ignore. 

”Morning, Eames. How you doing?” He said, and started moving jars around to find the espresso machine. Eames materialized at his side and, with a stare colder than wherever polar bears live, moved the jars back. Dean pulled a tactical retreat. Instead, he sat down at the kitchen island and faced his tea-filled morning with a brave face. Eames put the little cup in front of him and filled it.

”Did sir sleep well?” he drawled.

”Uh, yeah I guess.” Dean took a sip. It was– well it was fucking tea. 

Eames gave him a very long look.

”What?” Dean asked and started checking his clothes for stains. 

”Nothing, sir.” Eames turned away again. Dean stared suspiciously at the back of his crisp white shirt as he delicately wiped at the counter as if he could with sheer poshness make it cleaner than it already was. Just as it seemed Eames was going to leave him alone and Dean lifted his cup again, he said, ”I simply think it’s humorous that sir seems to believe it is currently morning, that is all.”

Dean checked his phone. 3pm. Well. 

”It’s morning in Kansas,” he muttered. 

”Debatable, sir.”

”Also, my pal, my buddy,” Talbot said from behind him. ”If you still got jet lag after two months here I think you maybe gotta take some vitamins or something.” He was leaning jauntily against the doorway, monocle in place, grin wide, eyes– eyes a little soft. ”Well, would you look at that, is the end nigh? Have the newspapers started calling? Is Dean Winchester drinking a cup of tea in a room where there is an espresso machine? I thought the two of you settled this with much irateness.”

At the same time as Dean said ”the espresso machine is mysteriously missing” Eames said ”what espresso machine?”

Talbot grinned and looked between them. When he walked past Dean, he patted him lightly on the back, the only real sign that what had happened yesterday had actually happened. The immense relief filling Dean wasn’t in that proof, but rather in knowing that Talbot seemed to be as willing as Dean was to _never speak of it again_. 

Talbot tried to pour himself a cup of tea, which led immediately to a quiet but severely orchestrated struggle. Talbot would grab the kettle to pour, which caused Eames to in protest take the cup away from him; Talbot would grab a new cup, at which point Eames would take the kettle away from him; Talbot grabbed the kettle back and held it away from Eames’ reach, grabbed a third cup which, before Talbot could even begin to pour, Eames poured cold water into. They glared at each other in silence. 

Dean was suddenly very worried they were gonna start making out. 

He quietly snuck around them and went to put his cup in the dish washer. If nothing else their diverted attention was an opening for him to try to do at least _one_ thing that vaguely resembled cleaning up in this place. When he opened it, it was to find the racks taken out and the empty space occupied by a slightly sad looking, but indeed very fancy, espresso machine. He closed it again. Eames: 1, espresso machine: 0. 

 

* * *

 

He got a text from Cas on his way down to the garage. 

 

 **Castiel Novak** : I am thinking about you. Meg says she wants to talk to you. Call Sam.

 

And well, that took him about an hour and a half to process. Just to be clear: if Meg wanted to talk to him, he was bringing a priest.

He argued quietly with himself for the duration of redoing the wiring to the breaks about what the hell to say to both Cas and Sam. He could just imagine how insufferable Sam would be, how he would say Dean’s name in that freakishly annoying way that made him sound like he was a kid again. And yeah, he’d promised Cas– he was going to call, he told himself. He _would call_. Just. Not right now maybe. He had stuff to do, he was a busy man. There was a car to fix. And his head was aching from the lack of caffeine.

Plus, you know, there was a small little voice in the back of his head saying ’ _Cas is thinking about you_ ’ and behind the voice, a much louder and more insistent one screaming in terror because ’ _Meg wants to talk to you_ ’. 

His phone rang just as he was rolling back out from under the car. He stared at Cas’ name on the display and had a minor, very very minor, little freak out. He could literally hear Sam’s bitchy snort #5, AKA ’for all your talk of chick flick moments…’, and answered half to shut it up, half because he still hadn’t answered that text and if he was gonna have any ground to stand on regarding Cas’ mixed signals he probably shouldn’t start ignoring him right now.

”Hey, Cas, uh, what’s u–”

”I don’t want to hear it,” Meg hissed, ”flirt on your own time.”

”What the fuck.” Dean glared at nothing. ”Did you kill Cas? Is this a ransom call?”

”If I’d killed him, how would I get ransom?”

”Good point. Wait, why the fuck are you calling me?”

She sighed heavily, ”Don’t try, I went through your texts, I know he told you I had to talk to you.”

”Well,” Dean said, ”firstly, that’s an invasion of privacy so: _dude_. And secondly, I thought that could wait until I’d finalized my will.”

”You’re such a drama queen. I’m having a birthday party and you have to come.”

 _What?_ ”What? Why? You hate me?”

”I hate everyone, but Cas won’t go unless you go.”

Dean picked a little at his jeans, ”he said that?”

Meg groaned for several seconds. Actually for quite a few seconds. It went on for a fairly impressive amount of time. ” _Spare me_. It’s in two weeks, at ’Taste Buds, be there or be ground to pieces and stuffed into my pies.”

”You don’t bake,” Dean muttered, slightly terrified. 

In the background he could hear Cas’ voice, muffled: ”–that my phone?”

”Phone? Never heard of it,” Meg said, then to Dean: ”Hey, so about gifts, there’s a 50 pound limit, by which I mean gifts of less than a fifty pounds will be buried in–”

Cas, in the background, ”who are you speaking to?” and some shuffling, a thud and a yelp of pain, then his voice. Gruff and warm and a little out of breath: ”Dean? I’m terribly sorry, Meg stole my phone.”

There was a couple of seconds of silence. Neither of them said anything. It was a paus, basically. The pausiest paus to ever paus. Dean could’t think of a single thing to say. So he exclaimed ” _I’m thinking about you too_ ” and hung up. Then he climbed up on the roof of the impala banged his head against it couple of times.

 

* * *

 

It took about two weeks for Dean to call Sam. To be fair, he did talk to Sam a lot during those two weeks too. Texts, phone calls, just… not _the_ conversation. He just did not want to have it. He’d gone 26 years of his life not fucking about with conversations like that, not _asking_ for things from people. Especially not things like _love me more_ , _need me more_ , because that’s what it boiled down to, wasn’t it? Dean couldn’t handle the fact that Sam was a whole, functioning human being who didn’t need him anymore, and if that wasn’t fucked up he didn’t know the meaning of the phrase. 

Worst brother in the world, check. 

Other stuff was happening too. Meg preparing the café for her birthday party involved more painting things black than Dean had originally been prepared for. Why he was roped into helping at all was beyond him as he was still fairly sure Meg hated his guts. Maybe she was hoping he’d give her one of Talbot’s cars. 

Finger painting weird symbols on tables was one of those things he’d never thought he’d be doing when he walked into this place yelling about american coffee, but Cas got paint on his nose and it was so endearing he didn’t really care. He’d tried to wipe it off, made it a lot worse, and Meg had kicked them out for killing her vibe. 

Him and Cas had sort of found a routine. A weird one, but a routine none the less. Dean had gone to ’Taste Buds the day after speaking on the phone with Meg and being a loser about Cas. For the first half of the day, he’d mucked about in the garage, done a tune up on Talbot’s Imperial Crown, and tried to think about other things. Then he’d realised that all the time he was spending having a headache and worrying about what to text Cas (at some point he was going to draw a timeline of his life and figure out at what exact point he’d become a middle schooler again, then build a time machine out of Talbot’s DeLorean and go back and punch himself in the face) could be spent drinking Cas’ coffee and staring at his ass. So he got in a car and drove there. 

It was… it was awkward. It was so goddamn awkward. He’d walked in the door and Cas had looked up; they had smiled at each other because god Cas never looked less than warm and steady and nice and hot as hell, Dean’s chest had swelled like it was the ending of a romcom and this was an airport scene and then– Well, then he’d gone up to the counter without realizing it, and stopped his hand from reaching for Cas when it was already half the way there. Then they’d stood there for a second, with the counter between them. The warm fuzzy feeling was replaced by a frantic patter of _what the fuck do I do now?_

Was he supposed to kiss him? They’d kissed in the car, like it was completely normal, but then again Cas _had_ also pulled away and said he wasn’t sure about being with Dean. It’s not like they were in a relationship; one make out session does not a couple make. Maybe a hug? Except that would also be really weird, because there was a counter between them, and also Cas was working. This was his job, not the place for PDA. Speaking of which, the café was pretty full of people. Who’s to say Cas would even want anyone to know they were– something. Dean wasn’t even sure how comfortable _he_ was with the idea of kissing in front of a room full of strangers, and Meg.

His hand had dropped down on the counter and he’d said, ”hey”. 

”Hello, Dean,” Cas said. He was still smiling softly, but he looked a little pinched. 

Dean was absolutely lost for words. ”Coffee?” He said. 

Cas nodded, ”of course,” he said, and didn’t move to make it. 

Dean nodded too. ”Cool.” He knocked a little pattern on the counter with his knuckles. Then he went and sat down in his usual armchair. He kind of wished the Impala was there so he could climb up and knock his head against the roof again. It had kind of helped the day before. 

Dean tried not to shoot glances at Cas and failed spectacularly. Cas, however, was sneaking glances at Dean pretty much precisely as often. Sam was laughing in his head.

Cas came over with the cup and suddenly Dean really couldn’t look at him. _not sure this is not a mistake_ , is what he’d said. He could have just as easily decided that nah, Dean wasn’t for him, he had other stuff to worry about. When he took the cup, he just glanced up and muttered ”thanks” under his breath.

For a second, Cas lingered, and Dean worried. Then he sat down next to Dean. He stroked his hand carefully over Dean’s shoulder, little smile at the corner of his mouth. They met halfway. It was just a soft brush of lips. Dean’s bottom lip caught a little between Cas’ and then they were parting again. Heart pounding in his fingertips, he watched Cas stroke a finger over his jaw, and then get up and go back to work. 

After that, in comparison to that? The coffee was pretty much just okay.

Who was he fucking kidding the coffee was heavenly, as usual. Cas was just better.

After that, a routine. Two weeks of… pretty much the same. Coffee and ’Taste Buds, working on the Impala, phone calls with Sam and Bobby, going on drives, bickering with Gabriel except… Except now Cas would kiss him when they saw each other. Their eyes would linger across the café (on one memorable occasion, Cas appeared to forget he was pouring a cup of coffee and got burned. Dean, whilst jumping up in worry, poured his own coffee on his lap. Cas leant him a pair he had in the back, and they kissed for long minutes in the storage room. A box of something was pressing into Dean’s back uncomfortably, but Cas was pulling at his hair so he didn’t give a shit.) Cas would tell him stories of Gabriel from when they were children, Dean would do the same about Sam. Now, when Cas gave him new books to read, he marked pages he thought Dean would enjoy with little colorful stickers. Cas sat next to him when he fixed the locks on the Impala, asking questions and providing bone dry humor that made Dean shake so hard with laughter he had to put his tools down before he electrocuted himself. Eames brought tea for the both of them. 

Dean made himself a spot on Cas’ sofa, sank into the cushions and got used to stuffing his toes under Cas’ thighs and holding Cas foot in one hand as they talked. Dean ate a lot more of Cas’ food. Then he would go back to Talbot’s mansion, lie in his gigantic king sized bed, and ache. 

He didn’t say anything to Sam, or to Charlie or Jo, or to Bobby. They didn’t ask. Not anything beyond the teasing the girls always dole out, anyway. So Dean just kept it to himself, for now. It’s not like no one knew. Meg obviously… saw. And Gabriel– well Gabriel was an insufferable ass but apart from grinning widely like the cat that had learned to use rat poison, said suspiciously little. Talbot clapped Dean very hard on the shoulder and would _not_ stop referring to Cas as Dean’s _young man_ no matter how much Dean begged, but other than that? The two weeks passed like a surreal experience. Like watching a film without the sound on; pictures flashing by, mouths moving, but somehow… untouchable. It was a little bubble in time held together by the look Cas gave him when he walked into a room. 

For every passing day, ’Taste Buds grew darker and creepier, decorations taking over the usual interior like a beast enveloping it (there was a disclaimer hung on the door, claiming ’temporary decorations for a rented event’ and the actual literal words ’we are not practicing satanism’), and for every passing day, Dean felt steadier than he had in years.

It rained a lot, but it was summer. The Impala roared with life, still a little messy, a little scratched up. Cas was in the passenger seat, smiling. It was summer, and Dean… Dean was happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *blows a kiss towards the ground* for my original plan to finish this fic in 2k14, now dead and buried


End file.
